


Aziraphale's Emails

by Sintina



Series: Unfinished Business [1]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Anxious Aziraphale (Good Omens), Awkward Sexual Situations, Aziraphale starts writing emails because talking is hard, Comforting Aziraphale (Good Omens), Crowley is a Mess (Good Omens), Demisexual Aziraphale (Good Omens), Demisexual Crowley (Good Omens), Domestic Fluff, Drunken Confessions, Enthusiastic Consent, Fluff and Angst, Kissing for an inhuman amount of time, Love Letters, Lovesick Crowley (Good Omens), Luddite Aziraphale, Metaphysical Sex, Multi, Queer Themes, Requited Love, Sexual Identity, Sexual Tension, The Bentley Just Can't with these two, The Plants Ship It
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-11
Updated: 2020-02-10
Packaged: 2021-01-26 15:55:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 23,801
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21376678
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sintina/pseuds/Sintina
Summary: "It seems I’ve accessed the information superhighway, at last.  I do hope you’re proud of me. I have a confession.  Well, I have several confessions, in fact.  I have attempted to do this properly, face to face, and I find myself incapable."Crowley isn't going to survive this.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: Unfinished Business [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1628956
Comments: 146
Kudos: 331





	1. First Time for Everything

**Author's Note:**

> "Aziraphale was the first angel ever to own a computer."  
\- Neil Gaiman and Terry Pratchett, Good Omens (book).
> 
> They say his computer "was a cheap, slow, plasticky one." Aziraphale's bookshop in the show has a 90s era computer that fits this description and no other computer in sight. Which means Aziraphale never updated his hardware. I believe he acquires a laptop in order to write these emails. He is a very intelligent angel, he can operate tech, he's just a luddite and chooses not to. The conveniences of modern tech are lost on him, because he can miracle whatever he wants or needs. He's his own Amazon, Wikipedia, and GPS. Besides, we all know he's got Crowley to do his Googling for him. 
> 
> NOT a You've Got Mail AU. Nothing against the movie, I've just never seen it.

After half a dozen rewrites, Aziraphale jiggles a rickety mouse until the arrow on the screen hovers over the “send” button. He swallows and he right clicks. Then he gets confused by the little menu that pops up. Then he clicks somewhere else on the screen, followed by more mouse-jiggling, until he successfully left clicks on “send”. 

> Dearest Crowley,
> 
> Please confirm you have received this missive. I’m dreadful with these things, you know. I have more to say, but will await your confirmation that I’ve done this correctly.
> 
> If you are not Crowley and this has entered your mailbox in error, please delete immediately. This is meant to be a private correspondence. 
> 
> Thank you,
> 
> Aziraphale 

Crowley’s mobile pings. He hasn’t gotten a message since he took a hellfire shower up in Heaven, so he’s on alert when he checks it. Crowley’s apps have been miracled against any form of advertisements or spam. Best case scenario, it’s some old temptation come back to haunt him. He reads the notification and drops the phone with a soft thud on his couch cushion. Aziraphale doesn’t email! The angel considered fax machines ‘Too much technology for communication’s sake, when really a simple phone call will do,’ and stopped paying newer innovations any mind. He skipped the whole of the digital age all together. Crowley smirks as he taps his screen. 

> _Angel! Your first email! I’ll treasure it always. _

Sent. He smiles and leans back on the couch, proud of himself. Azriaphale must be sitting, waiting, at what Crowley can only imagine is an enormous laptop with a green screen or something. Because he answers immediately. Perhaps it’s one of the very first MacBooks, with the rainbow colored apples set in soft, white cloud-looking bubbles? That would be very Aziraphale. 

> Oh Hello, Crowley! 
> 
> It seems I’ve accessed the information superhighway, at last. I do hope you’re proud of me. I feel I dislike this highway a bit more than the motorist version, and I didn’t think that was possible; but I digress. 
> 
> I have a confession. Well, I have several confessions, in fact. I have attempted to make these confessions properly, face to face, and I find myself incapable. Forgive me for that. If you’ll permit me, I’d like to try talking this way? Please. 
> 
> Yours truly, 
> 
> Aziraphale 

_ Confessions? _Thinks Crowley. _ Bloody heaven. _ Was this how it’d go, then? This, rather than handwritten sonnets, which Crowley had half-expected in the 18th century. Or drunken slips of the tongue, which he fully expected every drinking night since Armageddon was a non-starter. 

He doesn’t want it to be this way. He’s wanted it to happen, of course. And he’s even come to accept how awkward and terrible it will be, after all these years. But not like this. Not online. It’s permanent this way. Someone will be able to read the archives of Aziraphale’s ridiculous declarations centuries from now off some archaic hard drive in a museum. Email is worse than he could have imagined, and Crowley has a very good imagination. He hits the reply button. 

> _Angel, aren’t we getting dinner in an hour? Talk to me then. I promise to hear you out. _
> 
> _ Congrats on your baby steps into this century. _

Sent. Again, the angel’s reply is nearly immediate. Aziraphale must have typed most of these emails already, or else he’s miracle-ing them onto the screen. Crowley has a brief, and overly fond, vision of Aziraphale typing with the old ‘hunt and peck’ method, only using his index fingers while the rest of his digits are balled into tight little fists. A rubbish thought, too adorable for a demon to be imagining. He crinkles his nose at himself and reads. 

> Crowley,
> 
> Thank you, dearest. Of course I’ll speak with you at dinner, and any other time we’re together, but not about this. I’m sorry, but I can’t. I’ve tried. Please permit this one indulgence. I know it’s a terrible inconvenience. But I would very much appreciate not having to, well, to see your reaction when I tell you these things. 
> 
> I appreciate your understanding. 
> 
> Yours, 
> 
> Aziraphale

Well, what do you say to that, then? What can you say which doesn’t make you sound like an absolute cock? Crowley puts his face in one hand, while the other squeezes the phone until the screen has cracked, then he miracles it repaired, and loosens his grip. He exhales one long breath and types. 

> _ Sure, angel. Whatever you want. Only how about you wait on these confessions of yours until after dinner, yeah? Be odd to get started, then see one another right in the middle and forcibly not talk about it. _

His phone chimes one last time.

> Dear Crowley,
> 
> Of course. Quite right. Thank you again. See you soon, then. 
> 
> Your 
> 
> Aziraphale

Crowley is not going to make it through this dinner. How is he going to make it through this dinner? He rakes his fingers through his hair. Should he dress differently? Now that there’s confessions afoot? How is he supposed to act casual when dinner has gone from the usual pleasant rambling affair to an awkward prelude to these too-uncomfortable-for-face-to-face confessions? His tongue laps at the air in his usual nervous tic, smelling, tasting. He’d take out his frustrations on the plants, but there isn’t time for a tirade that appropriately captures his annoyance. The leaves quiver at the mere radiation of his grievances and stand taller for his cursory inspection as he paces. 

Finally, Crowley accepts there’s nothing for it. He swings his jacket off the hook and over his arms, grabs the Bentley’s keys, and heads out the door.

\---

Aziraphale waits a few minutes more, in case there’s a final reply from Crowley. When he is satisfied he won’t receive one, he gingerly tips the face of the laptop down to meet the keys until he hears a little click. He exhales. Heavens, what has he done? Rather than this nonsense, a proper character in a love story would have grabbed Crowley’s lapels one evening while the demon was spread out on his couch and kissed the bloody sod. Aziraphale shudders. The idea is too impossible. He doesn’t see himself as a demonstrative romantic, though he’s considered trying a hundred ways with Crowley. Aziraphale wishes he could read Crowley’s mind. He knows Crowley well enough to read everything else about him. There’s so much in what Crowley doesn’t say. 

It’s been years since they spoke freely. On a lovely rain-soaked and wine-sodden night in Salisbury back in the heyday of the “sexual revolution,” they’d finally been comfortable enough to trade stories of past liaisons. As an olive branch for that “too fast” unpleasantness, Aziraphale opened up more than usual in Salisbury. How he’d enjoyed Crowley’s reactions! Poor serpent was overwhelmed. The spectrum of sexuality was expanding at the time, and while they didn’t do anything so human as to label themselves, there was much talk on the subject of their proclivities or, rather, lack thereof. Alas, Aziraphale ended the otherwise enchanted evening on another dreadfully awkward note. 

He rolls his eyes at the memory. Damn his former self. And his current self for good measure. Ever since Salisbury, Aziraphale has craved another night of honest communication about their feelings, romantic and _ otherwise _. He has so many questions he didn’t ask and can’t bring himself to raise now. The bus ride from Tadfield and their delightful clutching of hands was a paradigm shift of their new life together. But then the body-swap had raised even more confusion about what Crowley might want from Aziraphale as a life-partner. 

Now Aziraphale has no idea how to move forward. He reproves himself for thinking ‘moving forward’ is even a requirement for a couple as well-established and obviously intimate as he and Crowley. How does one talk about all of this? How, especially, when Crowley is bound to interrupt? Crowley always interrupts, tries to sidestep, when topics get too serious. He also, too often, excuses Aziraphale’s abysmal behavior. Crowley doesn’t let Aziraphale admit mistakes or faults without insisting it’s self-deprecating and refusing to allow it. Which is sweet, but inappropriate given Aziraphale truly does have much to apologize for these days. 

He putters around the shop a bit more than usual before leaving. There is no real “closing up routine” that needs to be done, but Aziraphale finds he likes to keep up appearances in many areas of his life, most especially to himself. He counts the same pound notes and coins from the till each evening and secures them neatly in a dusty, leather bank bag and locks it up. He doesn’t notice that he checks his reflection in every shiny surface before he exits. Here, he straightens his bow tie; there, he considers changing to an ascot; over there, he shakes his head blandly at himself and thinks he’s better off with a bow tie. This dinner need not be anything out of the ordinary, after all. 

But he’s gone and started it, hasn’t he? The big “it” which he’s been overly cautious about and downright afraid of initiating. Aziraphale doesn’t know what’s finally come over him, but when he checks his reflection one last time, he nods proudly at himself, squaring his shoulders. This is good. He’s glad he began the conversation. Dinner will be normal and pleasant, then he’ll come home and pour his heart out via email. No problem at all. 

The bell over the door gives a familiar tinkling chime as he exits the shop, briskly trotting toward the restaurant and Crowley. 

\----- 

They’re both right about the meal. It is simultaneously a normal, pleasant affair as well as an awkward prelude to the long night ahead of them. 

Neither mentions the coming confessions, the emails at all, until dessert is served. But the topic lingers like lyrics to a familiar song when you hear an instrumental version playing in the background. They know the words, they just don’t say them. 

Instead, they rehash old conversations. Crowley loves visiting places that claim to be haunted, Aziraphale sees no point, an argument they’ve had repeatedly. 

“Think about it, angel,” Crowley gestures with his silverware, not eating more than a few bites occasionally to agree or disagree with Aziraphale’s judgment of the flavor or preparation. “We’ve seen everything now, haven’t we? Four horse-persons, the Antichrist, even the bloody Kraken! Why haven’t we ever seen a ghost?” 

“You know very well why, Crowley,” Aziraphale shakes his head in faux exasperation. 

“Humans are always on about them, aren’t they? It’s got to be like the dragons and unicorns, right?” 

“Both of which are extinct,” Aziraphale reminds him. 

Crowley ignores this. “Somewhere out there, someone’s seen a real ghost. One of these days, we’ll find one, is all I’m saying.” 

“Well.” Aziraphale smiles. He’s thought of a retort he hasn’t tried, because the incident is so fresh. “You’ve seen one yourself, already, dear boy. Me! When I was discorporated. You even got to converse with the dead, as it were.” 

Crowley recoils, his face a crumple of pinched features and Aziraphale almost apologizes before Crowley recovers with a shrug and says, “‘Sss’not the same.” Aziraphale can practically feel Crowley’s annoyance that a hiss slipped out. But Crowley continues, undeterred. “You can’t be a ghost, angel. You can only either be or not.” 

Aziraphale considers this and wets his lips, remembering a curiosity he’d never put voice to before now. “Did you think I was a ghost, Crowley? You were intoxicated. Did you presume you were only imagining me there, when I found you, that it wasn’t really me talking to you?”

Crowley looks at him, focused and intent, his amber irises searching, above those expensive shades of his. Then he exhales through his nose, a quick huff. “Only for a moment, really. I could never be too drunk to recognize you, angel, the way you feel. You were the same, doesn’t matter what plane you’re on. You feel the same.” 

“Oh. My. Well.” Here, the angel must clear his throat for lack of anything to say. They’ve gotten a bit too close to the… well, the topic at hand, haven’t they? Crowley is still studying him, and if Aziraphale had to guess, he’s waiting, wondering if Aziraphale will take them in the direction of his confessions. He swallows and decides to stay on his original course. He smiles. “If you’re so intent on meeting the undead, Crowley, I suggest speaking with Madame Tracey.” Aziraphale takes a prim hold of his napkin to dab at his lips. “I encountered at least one poor departed soul while I was occupying her body.”

“Angel!” Crowley leans forward so hard and fast his torso knocks the table, clattering dishes. “You never said!” His mouth hangs open, affronted and betrayed. “What were they like? Did you get a good look at them?” 

Aziraphale smirks with the knowledge of his minor victory, a one-up on Crowley he hadn’t actually considered until this moment. He relishes the admission that, “Well, it was quite a ghastly business.” 

\------

Crowley only gapes as dessert is served, the waiter interrupting them thoroughly enough to bring an end to this old line of discourse. But it’s not the last the angel has heard of this ghost business, Crowley will be sure of that. Honestly, who communes with a real ghost and doesn’t even tell his life-companion for weeks? Crowley glowers his indignation as Aziraphale makes his usual idle conversation with wait staff, orders a port, and finally returns his contented attention to Crowley after humming over the first decadent spoonful of mousse. Crowley works his expression into something between annoyance and affection. “So,” he ventures, “what else should we talk about, then? The weather?” 

“Don’t tease, Crowley. That first message was dreadfully embarrassing for me to send.” 

“You like when I tease,” Crowley leers. “And true. I was embarrassed on your behalf, just reading it.”

Aziraphale swats at him with his thick, cloth napkin and Crowley cleanly dodges with a smile. 

“You wicked serpent!” Aziraphale pouts and crosses his arms. “I’ll call the whole thing off, if you’re not careful.” 

“End our digital courtship before it’s begun? You wound me.” 

“It is _ not _a courtship!” Aziraphale stamps a foot, barely a whisper beneath the table cloth, but it might have been an earthquake as it reverberates up Crowley’s leg. “Really, Crowley. We’re beyond all that… Rather. I just.” He huffs. And Crowley can feel he’s gone too far. Aziraphale’s jawline is tight and his lip is doing that thing where he’s trying too hard not to bite it or let it quiver. 

“I’m sorry, angel. Look. I was surprised, is all.” He slides his half-eaten tart towards Aziraphale in a bribe for forgiveness. “I will say email’s something we’ve never done, so there’s that. I always like a new experience. Proud of you for giving it a go. Truly.” Also, there’s quite a few delightful ways to interpret being “beyond courtship” with Aziraphale. Crowley appreciates the implications for tonight. 

Aziraphale nods, curtly, arms loosening across his chest. Crowley slides the plate a bit closer and Aziraphale accepts it, at last, taking a small bite. 

“Oh, I must get the cherry next time,” he exclaims. “Bilberry was grand, but my goodness.” 

“Your goodness,” Crowley grins, “better last the night. I won’t be there to proffer apology cakes if you don’t like something I’ve typed.” He stiffens, he’d meant it as another joke, but the idea of getting into an actual row over an email suddenly seems entirely possible. He clears his throat. “Tone can be difficult to parse online, is all.” 

“Not to worry, my dear,” Aziraphale says, flourishing the final bite of sweet on his fork, “I suspect I’ll interpret your tone as flippant and crass as always.” Seeing Crowley’s eye-roll become a full-bodied endeavor, he smiles and leans forward. “Besides, I could practically hear you through the screen earlier and if I do require clarification, I’ll be sure to telephone.” 

Crowley isn’t reassured. 

He notices the Bentley feels sluggish, like she’s experiencing sympathy-disinterest in taking Aziraphale home tonight. [Really, the old dame can feel Crowley get increasingly fidgety, drumming his fingers on her wheel and rapidly tamping the heel of his boot on her floorboard. Aziraphale isn’t helping. Her passenger door handle is slick with sweat from his clutching palm. This invaluable vehicle has taken many an uncomfortable drive with these two, and she’s never been one to indulge their emotional idiocy. She cuts her engine off when Crowley parks at the bookshop.] Crowley doesn’t notice as he forgets himself and tries to get out, to follow Aziraphale inside for the evening. 

“It would probably be better for you to stay home tonight, dear boy. Perhaps keep your phone close so that we might wile away the hours with my emails, hm?” 

“Sounds maddening. But all right. You owe me an overnight at the Tower, finally.” 

“Really. Crowley,” Aziraphale admonishes. “I told you, those haunted events are rubbish.” 

“This email scheme of yours is rubbish," Crowley mutters. 

Aziraphale rolls his eyes, but beneath it looks genuinely hurt and shuts the door of the Bentley a bit too harshly. Crowley can feel her hackles raise and he pets her as he leans across her top, a sort of bow or prostration, reaching for Aziraphale. 

“Angel. You know I didn’t mean it. Just. I get impatient and I’m sure I’ll break my phone irreparably tonight is all.” 

“Fine then. If you do soldier through it, yes, my dear, we’ll do one of your Jack the Ripper outings or some such. Up to you.” 

Crowley perks up, standing straighter and smiling like a satisfied cat. “Deal, then. See you online soon, I suppose?” 

“Yes. Soon. I may require some liquid courage, as they say.” 

“I promise to get utterly wrecked. Are you familiar with drunk texts, angel?” 

“Only in theory.” 

“Well, I can near guarantee I’ll be acquainting you with the practice tonight.”

Aziraphale smiles, soft and loving and kind, “I look forward to it.” 

Crowley endeavours not to grimace, but it is a near thing. He waves Aziraphale off, slides back into the driver’s seat, and leaves the bookshop behind with his last hopes for a tolerable evening. 

\---- 

> Dearest Crowley, 
> 
> Thank you again for permitting me this. Well, here goes nothing, old boy. 
> 
> I’m afraid I have quite a bit of apologizing to do. You have guessed already at the nature of these confessions of mine: about us, about feelings, about our wretched past and confused present and shared future. I find I don’t know where to begin. 
> 
> I’m sorry for not accepting what you truly offered the night with the Nazis, or the night with the holy water, either, I suppose. I’m sorry, much earlier than that, for not understanding, well, anything really. I’m sorry for loving Her more than you, or myself, or anything, even the Earth, the humans. I’m sorry for, as they say, sticking to my guns until the very end, doing it all without you, finding Adam and not telling you until it was too late, getting myself discorporated. 
> 
> Damn it all. I need a moment to collect myself here. I promise this won’t be a rehash of every little grievance over the centuries. I have to tell you some things you don’t know. This is ever so hard. I couldn’t possibly have said any of this to your face, my dear. I hope you understand. I’ll be right back, I’m going to make some cocoa the old fashioned way and settle my nerves before continuing. 
> 
> Thank you for listening. 
> 
> Yours affectionately, 
> 
> Aziraphale 

Crowley decides to put the kettle on, himself. This is clearly going to be a long night. He angrily taps his first thoughts onto his screen. 

> _ Daft angel. Of course you couldn’t say any of this to my face! I would’ve stopped you less than a third of the way through. This is nonsense! _

He doesn’t hit send. He doesn’t erase it either. He pulls an Aziraphale and takes a moment. Crowley stomps around his kitchen, half a mind to storm out of the flat and straight to the bookshop to put a stop to this. But six thousand years have taught him to respect Aziraphale’s complicated relationship with his own emotions, even his own identity. 

Crowley knew deep down that “I don’t even like you,” in the bandstand meant “I can’t imagine a future without you.” Though his hateful brain has played a chorus of “I don’t even like you,” for maddening hours before and after the bookshop fire. The refrain does a damn fine job of popping back into his head just now, because he gave it even a passing thought, and he stomps all the harder, his plants quaking in the other room. He burns the tea and rather than miracle it right he sets a fresh pot on the burner. He sits in a chair at his small dining table, looks back at his screen, and corrects some of his text. 

> _ We both needed a moment. Daft angel. I would’ve stopped you less than a third of the way through if you’d tried to make a speech like that to my face. _
> 
> _ I’d never call our past ‘wretched.’ Never. Nor would I say you have to apologize for any of the bits you’ve mentioned. I understood the night of the Nazis. It was a lot. Everything was back in the 30s and 40s, awful decades, really. _
> 
> _ How’s your cocoa? Did you add some liquid courage to it? I was so discomfited I burned the tea, but I made a new pot. Thinking I should have gone straight to liquor, though. _

He hits send, tosses his phone aside, and flops his face onto the cool surface of the table. This is awful. Maybe not as awful as having such a fraught conversation face to face. But it’s awful because of the impersonal nature of it, the distance between them, when they should be… what? Holding one another as they say these things? He scoffs. If he were there, he’d have lost his temper by now, or bolted, or who knows what? Made a general fool of himself, most like. He hates it, but Aziraphale is right. This is probably the best way to clear the air of the last few millennia. Damn angel and his divine insight, sometimes.

The wait is longer now. An excruciating twenty five minutes pass as Crowley downs his tea, scrolls Twitter, Reddit, even 4Chan (another commendation that has nothing whatsoever to do with Crowley), and paces. Finally, a notification. Crowley isn’t ready for this. He sits heavily on the couch and reads. 

> My dear, 
> 
> Agnes Nutter would be proud, my cocoa has not gone cool and is just right, thank you for asking. It’s a bit early for liquor, I decided, just a spot of port. I hope you’ll let us get a bit further before you attempt any of that drunk texting business you mentioned before. 
> 
> Wretched was perhaps a strong word, our past holds many lovely memories, it’s true. I simply feel wretched when I think of what might have been, if only we’d chosen our own side sooner, if only I had let us even consider it. You must have considered it for centuries. 
> 
> When I think of you waiting for me to come round, and how even at the end of all things, I refused! I am ashamed. How I must have hurt you, my dear Crowley. It pains me. I must confess how much it took for me to see the truth, for I haven’t told you, and you deserve to know. 
> 
> It was not until I’d been ignored in my opinions, my efforts to avoid Armageddon mocked, my weight insulted, physically accosted by bad angels, further ignored when I tried to contact God Herself, discorporated, and dressed down by some military brigadier, that I finally found my way to your side. 

Crowley is livid. His eyes have gone red, not really, but it’s all he can see. He reads the cursed sentence once more- damn that bit about weight, the attack- ignoring the rest of the email. He throws his phone across the room, smashing it. He then proceeds to stomp on the smashed bits, grinding his boot heel into them for good measure.

“I had them. I could’ve killed the bloody lot of them myssself. I had them!” He storms in on his plants, furious, shouting and hissing at them. “I HAD THEM. Right there in front of me. Could have dousssed the basstardsss in hellfire!”

Aziraphale should have told him this part, before Crowley went up to Heaven, _ damn him _ ! He’d never known Aziraphale’s relationship with the higher-ups was so fraught. Crowley always assumed they just thought him odd or difficult. Gabriel’s hateful jab at the end, before the hellfire, comes to mind. Crowley had chalked it up to how betrayed they all felt by their beloved Principality upstairs. Had Aziraphale endured being spoken to so rudely for years?! Why hadn’t he told Crowley? He’d known the angelic bureaucracy were nothing but self-righteous assholes, but he’d thought Aziraphale loved them, was at least _ treated well _ by them, for fuck’s sake! 

That _ his angel _was attacked, probably in broad daylight, in the bloody street, by “bad angels.” And Crowley wasn’t there to fight them off? He can’t stand it. He has to end this now. Crowley needs to fire back an email that they’re done with this nonsense and he’s on his way to the bookshop. Where’s his bloody mobile? He thrusts himself around the flat for it. Then remembers the shards and the stomping. He rolls his eyes and snaps his fingers and the vile thing is back in his hand. He scrolls the cursed sentence up off the screen lest he accidentally read it again and continues with the last bit. 

> Meanwhile, there you were, mourning me! Of all things! You’d offered me escape to the stars. In return, I spurned you every way I knew how. And for what? In order to stay in the good graces of those who would treat me so unkindly. That’s who I chose over you. When you have only ever been a saint to me, Crowley. An actual saint. You deserve so much better. By Her very name, you know I must apologize. I fear I can never apologize enough.
> 
> Do you forgive me? Your prior message says I shouldn’t apologize. I’ve argued that I should. I am so deeply sorry and I ask that you forgive me, Crowley, please? 
> 
> I think you may be right about the liquor now. That bourbon you brought me back from America several years ago sips nicely in my cocoa. I’ll make another cup and do that. 
> 
> Yours, 
> 
> Aziraphale 

Crowley’s nostrils flare, long and snakelike, as he inhales and exhales large breaths. He tastes the air with a forked tongue, nowhere near in control of himself. He realizes his wings have unfurled and stretches them a bit, thinking. He can’t storm over there when Aziraphale is so vulnerable; it would throw the poor angel further into a state. Crowley pops the cork of a trashy, but delicious red, not the good stuff for this night, not now. He takes a long drag. He growls and hisses as he prowls about the flat, clicking his teeth, ruffling his feathers, and types. 

> _ You owe me far more than some haunted tour of London for this. I want the catacombs. Or I want that bone church, the giant ossuary, you know the one, just a bit outside Prague, right? People are terrified of that place. _
> 
> _ I was right, too. I’ve broken my phone to bits. Probably have to re-heel my left boot. _
> 
> _ I hate them. I’ve always hated them, but oh. Never like this. Any one of those bastards who hurt you comes down here again, I’ll smell them from a 100 miles. I’ll make them regret it, Aziraphale, I swear it. _
> 
> _ Forgive you? Forgive YOU. Of course I fucking forgive you. And I’m not even going to try _
> 
> _ to list all the reasons you’ve got to forgive me over the centuries. Let’s just call ourselves square and move on from this. Okay? You can toss me a cursory forgiveness in your next message, if you want. _
> 
> _ What else you got? _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Posted in the dead of night on a Sunday because I swear this formatting took longer than the writing itself! (but it'd be OOC for Aziraphale to _not_ indent his paragraphs!)
> 
> Just posted a fun meta tweet thread as an side-car to this fic. I'm [ @Sintinas](https://twitter.com/Sintinas) on the Twitter and have no other social media cause I'm a Luddite. 
> 
> I've read more in this fandom than all my others combined. The variety is endless! And it ALL feels canon. Every configuration of romantic, platonic, sexual, ethereal, genital, eldritch horror, and beyond is just another accepted head canon to me. There's so little that's OOC for the ineffable husbands. I adore all our options for interpretation! I hope you enjoy mine.


	2. Emails Need a Character Limit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Crowley, I’m glad we’re finally doing this again. Talking, that is. Do you remember the last time? Salisbury?" 
> 
> Sure. And the less Crowley thinks about Salisbury, the better.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The [ Twitter thread side-car](https://twitter.com/Sintinas/status/1195489924113453060) to this fic gets a little longer every other day or so! 
> 
> Thanks to [ Sara](https://twitter.com/SaraTestarossa) for the beta!

It’s not okay. 

Aziraphale feels like Crowley’s forgiveness, while he’s happy to receive it, should be less flippant. He paces with his thoughts. Then he sits back down before his laptop, scanning over the screen. Perhaps he did not properly convey the gravity of his transgressions? No. On a reread, he laid bare his guilty conscience as best he could. He clicks on a minimized window, where his next email is half-written already. He’d prepared further defense and explanations for his behavior, with the forethought and assumption that Crowley would be angry with  _ him. _ Aziraphale waves a hand at the screen and the preconceived text disappears. He sits back and stares at the blinking cursor. Why should Crowley be angry with Gabriel and the others? They’d acted in their typical holier-than-thou fashion, behavior which both he and Crowley were accustomed to over the millenia. 

Well, yes, Uriel and the others on the street corner were overzealous and completely out of order. Aziraphale deflates a bit when he realizes he will likely never get vindication for their mistreatment. Besides the satisfaction of saving the world, of course; he mustn’t forget that. It would be pleasant to see his aggressors receive some form of punishment, Crowley has a point, there. 

And yet. Aziraphale is the one who betrayed Crowley!  _ He _ deserves Crowley’s phone-crushing wrath and hard-won forgiveness. The severity of his wrongdoing is all the worse because he and Crowley love one another, professed or not. That’s what tonight is all about, isn’t it? He doesn’t want to start whatever comes next for the two of them, couplehood or what-have-you, with any of this kind of baggage. Aziraphale’s throat tightens. He drums his fingertips on the keys and takes some deep breaths before typing. 

> Oh Crowley, 
> 
> I admit, I expected more confrontation from you in response to my betrayal of your trust and our friendship. 

He sighs. He blinks many times, willing himself out of a fast-approaching state. This is going poorly, isn’t it? If Aziraphale weren’t such a coward- the other angels were right about that- he’d take this on in person. He’d be there with Crowley, like he ought to be in a moment like this. He stands, takes a few steps towards the coat rack, considers bucking up and heading to the flat. Crowley deserves his company, not just his words on a screen. He passes the counter and his fresh, softly steaming mug. He stands, feeling foolish and heartsick in his indecision. His lips are going to peel and bleed if he keeps worrying them so. 

He grabs the mug, taking a large gulp of spiked cocoa. Liquid courage, indeed. It’s the perfect temperature, warming his throat and belly without scalding. The flavor and texture are just what he needed- something else on which to focus. He licks the foam from his lips and rolls his next sip more carefully in his mouth. The heady, caramel undertone of the bourbon reminds him of Crowley’s pleased and proud expression when he’d gifted the bottle. They’d been apart for several months and Aziraphale had been abuzz to see him. 

Smiling at the memory, he returns with mug in hand to the desk and laptop. He reads Crowley’s angry, ranting lines again. Aziraphale’s skin heats as his mind conjures images of Crowley defending his honor by ‘making them regret it’ in a variety of imaginative ways. All at once, he’s recalling the bodily reactions of both himself and Madame Tracey to Crowley striding, heroic and triumphant, up to them from his burning Bentley. Quite a bit of tingling going on in that moment. 

Well, he’s started out this way, and despite the unpleasantness, it  _ is _ working. After all, Aziraphale was certainly correct about not wanting to  _ see _ Crowley’s reactions to this conversation in real-time. Just reading about the emotional violence after-the-fact had Aziraphale’s guts out of order and feeling altogether sorry for himself! He couldn’t have borne it if he’d been there and witnessed Crowley’s outrage. Aziraphale would only have blamed himself, which was surely not Crowley’s desire. No. None of that would do. The only thing for it now is to email the rest, as planned. He’ll figure out how to apologize to Crowley, again, face to face sometime later. Aziraphale mashes keys the human way for the remainder of this email, rather than thinking words onto the screen, because the sound and tactile pressure is satisfying for his poor nerves. 

\------------

Crowley can just see Aziraphale, fretting and dithering about, taking care with every blasted word. Meanwhile, waiting on his response is maddening. Crowley is so impatient, he pops out to the corner store, intent on empty calories and salt, or just something to do to fill the time. He glowers down each aisle, judging the poor selection, before deciding he doesn’t actually want anything and what business did he have in a store such as this, anyway? Damn fool idea. When is the angel going to get around to replying? He has a sudden fear that Aziraphale might have been so distraught he rushed over, only to find Crowley not at home. He races back up to the flat. At finding the place quiet and empty, he would’ve sunk into an even grumpier stew except his mobile finally pings. 

> Oh Crowley, 
> 
> I admit, I expected more confrontation from you in response to my betrayal of your trust and our friendship. I deleted entire paragraphs of additional defense and explanations for my behavior. I should have known you’d direct your aggression elsewhere and I thank you for that, though I still struggle with whether or not I deserve your leniency. I must assess my feelings about all of this further, but I do believe you’ve helped me to stop blaming myself, a little. 
> 
> As to what I’ve got, as you put it. I've got ever so much more to tell you Crowley. I've also got, well, an all-encompassing notion that confessing via email is quite cowardly. You may have been right to call this idea rubbish. I am so sorry for upsetting you to the point of mobile destruction, just as you predicted. I am fighting the urge to come to you, to stop being a dreadful recreant and tell you everything in person.
> 
> However, the urge to be by your side just now is foolish, I know. If your earlier anger has me all in knots just reading about it, I know I won’t last the night in your presence. The only way out is through, my dear. Thank you for your patience. 
> 
> Regardless of the medium, I’m glad we’re finally doing this again. Talking, that is. Do you remember the last time? Salisbury? I mean, of course you remember. Rather, do you think about that night as often as I do, Crowley? I’ve wanted to continue the conversations we had in Salisbury and have never gotten up the courage. 
> 
> While these emails don’t feel particularly courageous, this is less cowardly than I’ve been with you in the years since Salisbury. So, here’s to progress, my dear. 
> 
> Yes, please, know that I forgive you for any and all transgressions, real or imagined, which you feel you’ve committed against me over the centuries. I confess I want us to begin- whatever it is we’re beginning tonight- with a clean slate, as it were. Here’s to all our dirty laundry aired out, clean and drying. The world got a fresh start, so too should we.
> 
> Yours, 
> 
> Aziraphale 

Ugh, Salisbury. Of course he’d bring that up. The less Crowley thinks about Salisbury, the better. He shudders. Aziraphale was not only loose-lipped and weirdly flirty in Salisbury, but worse, it was like he was putting on a show for Crowley, like his altered demeanor was something Crowley wanted. And, yeah, ‘course it was! Sort of. Not disingenuine, though, not like that. The evening was such a mind-fuck after the whole ‘too fast’ business. Suddenly, the blessed angel is chatting him up, casual as you bloody well please, about his few, very select, human partners! Crowley’s lips curl with the same twisty, jealous disgust he’d felt that night. He still recalls the dreamy tone with which the angel said each of their blasted names, not to mention the coy grin on his dopey lips forming the words ‘carnal relations.’ 

Crowley can’t help the barking gag sound that escapes his throat. He doesn’t mean it, not really. Deep down somewhere, he’s happy for Aziraphale. Glad he didn’t spend all the centuries alone. And the angel will be experienced if ever they… but, Crowley doesn’t know if he  _ can _ . The knowledge of Aziraphle’s history is at once a relief and a terror. What if Crowley can’t...? He shakes his head. He’s gone and gotten too far ahead of himself. They’re not talking about that. Aziraphale isn’t asking about sex. Right? He rereads the angel’s email so he can get his head right about it. 

Oy. He’d very much like to forget the ‘conversations we had in Salisbury’ altogether. Of course, his traitorous mind has never let him. On his part, the night had been an embarrassing lot of mumbling about his preference for intellectual stimulation over physical stimulation;  how he would have preferred to  _ feel _ something for any of his rare liaisons, which were really more performative work functions . Aziraphale had the nerve to look at him with something like pity, damn him. Despite it all, Salisbury became the millionth time Crowley had hoped for an admission of mutual affection, only to be left dejected, and willing to give up the cause wholesale. Until, of course, he saw the damned angel again the following month. And the spin cycle started over. Lather, rinse, repeat, or some bloody nonsense. He hates himself. Yes. The less said about Salisbury, the better. 

He’s not thrilled by Aziraphale’s apologetic martyrdom in any of these emails, either. Confessions, the angel said, but Crowley’s not the bloody pope. He’s all for clean slates and fresh starts, but it seems he’d better steer the conversation away from all this apologizing and forgiving, if possible. Maybe that’s why Aziraphale brought up Salisbury, trying to change the subject? Crowley can work with that. 

—— 

Aziraphale really does attempt to do some chores as he awaits Crowley’s reply. He tries so hard to be productive. Usually, he spends his days preparing for the long nights of reading, notating, and translating; he’d have a series of tasks laid out for the overnight hours by now. All of which could be performed in a comfy chair or in bed, of course. But today was spent constructing what he thought would be his first several emails of clearing-the-air before getting to the important parts, the relational parts. Now, the evening is full of energy, possibilities. Their course changed swiftly and anything can happen. He finds he can’t distract himself at all. He drinks a full glass of port more quickly than he normally would. He sets the bottle away, hiding it from himself somewhere out of reach. 

Alright, if not wine, perhaps some cookies and ice cream? Yes, that’ll be just the thing. Azirphale wishes he’d thought to have a plan in place for these gaps in communication. He does not like the idea of spending the entire night pacing around, eating and drinking, while he wonders which direction Crowley will take the evening next. On the other hand, he’s proud of himself for covering so much ground already with these emails. He’s nervous and excited. The ice cream bowl is an art piece when he’s finished with it, the cookies splayed around the perfect dome of vanilla like petals of a flower. He’s had only a moment to admire it when the tinny speakers on the laptop alert him to Crowley’s response. He abandons dessert to rush to his chair and the ice cream melts while he reads.

> _ No, I got it wrong. Had to start off by email, didn't we? I'd have cocked the whole thing up by now if we were together. I don't do well with this sort of talking, as you know. Salisbury was a fine example of that, really. Was wise of you to distance us for tonight’s exercise. You're no coward. Without you braving the internet, we wouldn’t be at all civilized about this, would we? Cheers for your emails, alright.  _
> 
> _ Not sure how often you think of Salisbury, angel. So I can’t speak to my frequency versus yours now, can I? Try not to think of that conversation, mostly. I wouldn’t say this is going better than Salisbury yet. Didn’t crush any expensive tech back then, as I recall, though I was incensed that night. Demonic temper is a hell of a thing. Forgive me, we’ve reached the pun portion of the evening.  _
> 
> _ Funny your wanting to come round already. I've had the urge to charge over to the bookshop twice now. Tell you what, the sun's just setting properly out my window, looks stunning by the way, you should trot upstairs and have a look. Let's give this email thing a few more goes and why don't we promise to get together before the night's over, yeah? If we're both feeling the urge already, must mean we're meant to finish this thing face to face, even if we couldn't start out. Right? This is far too much bloody text for me now. I've rambled. Go see the sunset and get back to me. _

What utter tosh. Crowley’s account of Salisbury  _ would _ only include the worst bits. Well. Aziraphale knows Crowley is trying to be kind about it with the attempts at humor. Besides, he can’t focus on that, not when he’s faced with the genuine sweetness of Crowley’s invitation. To promise to conclude the evening together? How forward! Azriaphale must tease him. Perhaps something silly about the propriety of spending another night at the flat so soon? Whatever will the neighbors think? Azriaphale chuckles. He grabs his once-hidden bottle of port, which had the decency to refill itself while in repose. The momentum and anticipation of the evening has him practically dancing up the stairs to see the sunset from one of his west-facing windows. Just like Crowley, charging ahead to the end, giving them something to look forward to. 

Oh, the view is splendid. Crowley has always had an eye for natural wonders, simple everyday pleasures which Aziraphale might not look up from his books to enjoy otherwise. He beams at the glow of cascading sherbet hues melting down the horizon. An answering shimmer of love in his heart makes him wish he were in Crowley’s arms, watching the sunset on the balcony of his flat. He can almost feel the comfort of such an embrace and leans slightly backward into his imaginary Crowley. Maybe, just maybe, they’ll hold one another as they watch the sunset tomorrow, and perhaps every other night they please. If they aren’t in the midst of another row by the end of this email fiasco, of course. Aziraphale laughs. It was a thought he heard in his mind’s version of Crowley’s voice. 

There is an empty bottle in his hand as the angel descends the stairs after enjoying the twinkling emergence of the first few stars. Aziraphale is feeling a bit tipsy, he realizes, when he sits back down at the desk. Oh, that’ll do nicely. He types with abandon and a broad, goofy grin. Then he sees all the ridiculous typos and swipes them away with a hand in the air, adding the rest of his thoughts to the screen directly, just to be safe. He’s said too much, been silly, and he doesn’t care. Honesty is the whole point of this exercise! He hits send with a flourish. Take that, demon, you’re not the only one who can fluster. 

————————

Crowley knew Aziraphale would take his sweet time with the sunset. He’s fine with it. He feels confident his gambit with the beauty of nature is a perfect angel-distraction that must have worked. He can sense the mood lighten between them, even across all this insufferable distance, as he swirls and sips his brandy, watching the stars. This isn’t so bad. He can handle this. His angel won’t stay away for long. No way he’ll be able to pass up the opportunity to put an end to this awkwardness and come round already. He saunters into the greenery to mist his plants, taunting and hissing at them with merely a playful hint of spite. Crowley might as well as be serenading the foliage. The more sensitive ferns try their best not to faint in response. Just as he sets the mister down, he gets the next email. 

> My darling, 
> 
> That was lovely. Thank you, Crowley. Yes, of course, I promise to end the night together. I can’t tell you how much I appreciate the suggestion. What a perfectly romantic notion! You truly are a clever tempter. I meant to tease you about spending another night at your flat so soon. I would have added some Edwardian pearl-clutching, but after that lovely sunset and all this splendid port, I can only compliment you on your wisdom and tenderness. I hope my wellspring of admiration has you so rattled you’re scaring the poor plants.
> 
> Is it just me or does this feel more intimate than it has any right to? These are mere pixels on a screen, but I can hear your voice and can feel you through them. What did you say earlier? That I always  _ feel _ the same? That’s how you knew you weren’t imagining me at the bar after I’d been discorporated. I’ve had the same experience with you. I can sense you in a crowd before I see you, dear. I swear I felt you watching the sunset as though you were standing there with me. 
> 
> Our seemingly spiritual and ineffable connection keeps my faith alive, did you know? This is part of what I’ve struggled with, one of the issues preoccupying my mind so that I could not open up about our relationship these last weeks. My next confession is: I fear I may be an apostate, how fully I’ve lost faith in the institutions of my life. You must think me terribly naive to have seen so much and never accepted a fraction of your truth before. Think of everything I have read! Good Lord, Crowley. How much of human literature, to say nothing of art and philosophy, is devoted to the concept of actual Truth existing in the gray area between starkly opposing individual truths? My persistent obliviousness feels like another betrayal of you and of us. It is part of my slate-cleansing between you and I. Some days, I wish to rid myself fully, give myself over to cynicism and apostasy, but it is impossible. In the end, the brilliance of Her ineffability saved everything, and you and I were part of that. She must have seen what we are now on day one, Crowley. Still, I accept your truth more than ever, as it is part of ‘our own side,’ and our future together. I am glad our side has room for my truth being with Her and yours against Her. If that’s not ineffable, I don’t know what is. 
> 
> And yet. I still don’t know how to reconcile what I endured in those final days with my lived experiences in the millenia prior. For so long, I thought I understood my fellow angels. I thought they saw more in the world than a fresh and ready battleground. I countered your opinion of them so many times. You were right, of course, in the end. It does seem there’s very little difference between those above and those below. I thought my crisis of faith was with Her, but I suppose it was only with them, those I thought were on my side. 
> 
> But it wasn’t so much a crisis as to stop me contacting God Herself after they accosted me outside the shop. Filing a formal complaint, a proper cease and desist on Armageddon, seemed so important to me. Bureaucracy is a bad addiction to break. You’ll be sure to call me out when I struggle with these inclinations again in the future, won’t you? Perhaps stop me when I next try to send some poor civil servant a correction to the taxation forms? I no longer trust the process. That’s what it is! Oh Crowley. How much easier is it to maintain one’s faith in the Big concepts when you’ve got a reliable system in which to practice your beliefs every day? 
> 
> If the system is broken and its proponents irreparably flawed, should not my faith in Her be shaken? Yet, I have good reasons to maintain devotion to Her; but I have no new methods to practice my faith daily. How do I serve without offices and reports and thwarting? Trusting my gut and flailing about and getting saved by you and the humans? You see? I am so accustomed to reliable mechanisms in which I fit. How do I live our new truth with you? How do I make room for our partnership when my head is so full of confusion about my purpose? 
> 
> Well. I decided today that perhaps our partnership is my purpose, now. And maybe I should stop overthinking it and enjoy my newfound alignment. All things are working towards the good. After all, we won the world and each other. 
> 
> Ahem. Back to gladder tides, perhaps? Despite your grousing, dear boy, Salisbury was not all bad. The intimacy of our reminiscing was not lost on either of us, as I recall.  Leaning on one another’s shoulders on that lumpy, old chaise, all the pillows bunched up behind us against the wall, remember? We hadn’t sat so close in ages, been so comfortable. But I couldn’t bring myself to outright lay hands on you! I’d been so sure we might throw caution to the wind at last. Yet too much caution still burned deep in my essence, too much fear. You already said you don’t hold any of my past reservations against me, so I won’t apologize again. 
> 
> I confess I want tonight to end a bit like Salisbury, when we’re together at your flat, only I won't muck it up this time. My actions were so dishonest in Salisbury. I regret pulling away and apologizing. Both were lies. The truths were: I didn't want to pull away, I wanted to deepen our kiss and I wasn't sorry for kissing you, but for stopping!  How did the kiss even start? Were we trying to bid each other goodnight with a social kiss like old times? Only do tell me I wasn’t the only one who felt it simmer for just a moment longer than necessary? 
> 
> Ahem. Well, that certainly all came tumbling out. Not deleting a word, either. Tonight’s about honesty and you’ve gotten an earful, now. I expect you to reply in kind, my dear. I finished my bottle of wine on the landing, watching the sunset with you. I suppose that might be the culprit. Thank you for doing this with me Crowley. I don't know how I ever would have gotten around to saying any of this otherwise. 
> 
> Affectionately yours, 
> 
> Aziraphale 

Heaven and Hell and all things in between! Crowely’s plan worked  _ too  _ well. The angel got drunk off that bloody sunset! His email is. Too much. To unpack. Crowley takes a breather before trying to read any of it again. He goes out on his balcony and looks at the stars, the rising moon, in waning crescent, on its way to the new moon. He recalls how big of a deal humans used to make out of those dark nights, the beginning of new cycles, new tides. Fitting, he snorts, clenching his jaw. Too bad most new beginnings require wiping away everything from before. Crowley swallows. That's not what this is. "It's not," he says as a mantra to the cold sliver of moonlight overhead. 

So, the angel lost his faith in the system? Bout time. Aziraphale thinks their relationship is some divine intention, rather than a happy accident. What about free will, angel, damn? Crowley doesn’t want to debate theologies. His wings whip forward in a sudden wind, trailing edges of his primary feathers curling at their tips. He stretches them up high above his head, lets the air suck and tug at them, closes his eyes. Crowley focuses. He’s always enjoyed the raw instinct that itches his skin when these two limbs attempt to get lost in the forces of nature, to carry him away to the stars where he belongs. He exhales. Then Crowley tucks them back out of the physical plane of existence. He pulls out his mobile and rereads Aziraphale’s words. There should be a character limit on emails, for pity’s sake. His fangs elongate only enough to gently open his mouth before he draws them back in. With one hand on the balcony railing he thinks his harried response onto the screen. If the angel can cheat, so will he.

Crowley doesn’t like it. He doesn’t like one syllable of his thoughts mirrored back to him on the screen. He feels raw and the ache of it, of all this bleeding heart honesty, is so uncomfortable he wants to shed his human form and curl up somewhere as a cold-blooded snake for the night. Of course he could  _ will  _ his traitorous heart to stop being so damned thumpy and irregular; he could will his stomach not to feel hurl-ish. But he can’t stop feeling the way he does about Aziraphale. He can’t stop loving him and all of this is part of that. Damn it. 

They’re supernatural, can’t they figure out a way to telepath this kind of shit to one another already and stop with the words, words, and more words? Well. Aziraphale does love to read. Crowley thinks this might be the most words he’s ever strung together. Except that’s certainly not true. He penned quite a few sonnets, ballads, and such in the earlier centuries. He’s only rusty and the need for such things did change with the times. He reads it all again. He goes back inside, drinks, chugs, and wipes his lips with his hand. He tosses his phone on the couch after he hits send. Crowley walks to his bedroom where he can be as undignified as he damn well pleases when he tosses himself on his enormous bed and screams into a pillow. 

——— 

Aziraphale is giddy; he hums as he dusts. His earlier resignation about the process of having an embarrassing email conversation with Crowley is melting away with each new revelation. He twirls on a toe between the shelves and stacks, replacing one book and retrieving another in a jaunty dance with the furniture. When he’s run out of whimsical puttering to occupy himself, he sits at his desk and opens a new tab in his browser. Perhaps he’ll take this world wide web for a spin? He types: “real estate South Downs” and is overwhelmed by the variety of options in just the first page of results. He’s not sure whether it’s the time-warp that happens when one is thoroughly engrossed in research, but Crowley’s response arrives far more quickly than he’d expected. 

> _ The greatest ‘betrayal of you and of us’ committed against me so far, angel, is your seeing a ghost from inside a medium’s body and not thinking to tell me. Still! You’ve had all night. Not a single one of these blasted confessions of yours concerns your run-in with the undead. I am beside myself with disappointment. _
> 
> _ Glad you came round to the right conclusion. You’re no more guilty of apostasy than I am of blind devotion. Could’ve told you that myself, if you’d asked. You’ve got Her Ineffable Plan tattooed under your damn eyelids. In fact, I dare you not to write the word ‘ineffable’ in another of these bloody emails the rest of the night! Bet you can’t do it. I can’t believe you even think we- our relationship, what we are to each other- were a part of it, Nutter’s prophecy and everything else. I don’t mind your beliefs, of course. Just can’t share them. Think we got lucky, is all. But I know you, angel. You’re UnFallen because you have more faith than the whole bleeding lot of them together.  _
> 
> _ The damn angel achievement award should be named “The Aziraphale,” for fuck’s sake! Can you imagine an awards show in Heaven? I think Michael should host. They should drag all the demons up to make them watch and applaud. Now that’s torture! See? I know you’re smiling because you have a sense of humor, you get that it’s all just a show. Faith hasn’t made you a hopeless bureaucrat and you’re better off without their routines, pomp, and circumstance. And if your new devout practice is embracing our partnership, well. I can come up with some rituals for you to engage in every day to prove your faith, angel. Let me tempt you to some Our Side sacraments, hm?  _
> 
> _ See there. I can give you honesty. Just remember you asked for it. My only memory of that night in Salisbury, besides the way you exhaled a soft little hum when we kissed, is jealousy, all right? I endured a searing, blind, white-hot possessiveness on hearing there were humans you loved and even buggered who were not me. See that? ‘Not so bad,’ you said. Hah.  _
> 
> _ Not that I was or am passing some sort of judgment, mind. Only I thought we were more alike in that way. Not interested in that sort of thing, except maybe with… you know. And even then. My body doesn’t respond as it should, angel. I found humans more stimulating in conversation than in bed. Always much preferred getting a brainer to a boner. Oh, that’s rich. Get it? Just came up with that bit! I told you we’d reached the punny hour.  _
> 
> _ Of course I feel our connection here too. Your emails are intimate, yes. Like our night in Salisbury and also the night you spent in my flat after Tadfield. But I’m not drunk enough to confess about that yet. Perhaps later you’ll start getting some dirty details. That’s what drunk texts are for!  _
> 
> _ Speaking of details, you glossed over those of your attack and the body-shaming insults they threw at you, angel. I get your whole blathering crisis of faith email was important venting, and thank you for sharing. But were you also, possibly, talking around what’s really bothering you, hm? Tell me who hurt you and how. I won't be able to hear it in person, so this is better. I promise not to stomp on my mobile this time. I just. I need to know, because it’s part of you now, and I need to know the hurts you’ve suffered so I can help you heal them.  _
> 
> _ Damn. Sodden purple prose, that. See what you do to me? In these stupid emails? Never would have said something like that out loud. Not deleting it, either. Everybody gets one, angel. Count yourself lucky.  _

Oh dear. And how is Aziraphale supposed to respond to that? When he heads to the kitchen, the spring has dropped out of his steps and his once-bouncy feet resume their pacing from earlier in the evening. He doesn’t want to talk about the things he endured anymore, he told Crowley about them and that’s that. He should say no. That he’s not ready. But really, is that true? Aziraphale blows a breath of air out between his slightly pursed lips. It's so like his blessed demon to pick up on his avoidance and tempt him to truly clean some slates, like he said he wanted. He looks at the screen and the words ‘Just remember you asked for it,’ seem to shine off the body of the text, as though glowing red. He snorts. The ethereal connection between he and Crowley could very kindly not mock him, thank you very much. 


	3. Travel Down the Road and Back Again

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Impatient, are we?" Crowley purrs. 
> 
> "Well. It seemed appropriate at this point to telephone, don't you agree?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "The message had come during 'The Golden Girls', one of Crowley's favorite television programs." - Terry Pratchett and Neil Gaiman, Good Omens 
> 
> [ Good Omens characters cosplaying as Golden Girls tweet thread](https://twitter.com/Sintinas/status/1201154718703194114?s=20)
> 
> Emotions! I love you for reading this smol fic of mine. Thank you.

Crowley should leave the flat. He should burn off the energy thrumming under his black nail polish with a stroll or even a flight. Instead, slouched against the headboard with his pillows, he brings up a favorite episode of the _Golden Girls_ on his phone. He hums along to the theme song, thinks of Aziraphale, like he always does during the intro. There was a time when the words stung; perhaps the lyrics no longer apply? The angel has made it clear he sees Crowley as more than ‘a pal and a confidant.’ There’s a wild notion. All these emails are leading to something decidedly _more_ between them. When Blanche gets a drink, Crowley miracles himself a dainty crystal goblet of red wine to join her, toasting his new relationship status to the little screen. After the episode, he comes up with reasons to stay in bed, not get up until after he’s read the next email. It’s comfortable here, dark and cool. This is fine.

Only ten minutes into the next episode, a notification box covers the curly top of Dorothy’s hair. Crowley stretches himself up the wall, slides down until he is flat on the bed. He holds the screen aloft, one long arm high above his face, and he reads. 

> Dearest, 
> 
> I am very lucky to be the recipient of all your prose, purple or otherwise. And I’m so pleased you feel the intimacy of this communication as much as I do. So very pleased. I look forward to our rendezvous later this evening. Knowing I will see you at the end of all this gives me a heady buzz of anticipation and makes me less afraid of any unpleasantness between now and then. 
> 
> I’m sorry to inform you that your crude ‘brainer’ joke for intellectual stimulation was not some spur of the moment pun just now. You made yourself laugh with that one in Salisbury as well, dear boy. Of course, I don’t mind the repetition, but thought it would be terribly unsporting to let you go on thinking I hadn’t heard it from you before. If I knew how to make an emoji here, I’d give you one of those smiling wink faces, my dear. You deserve it. Asking me to dredge up sore subjects when I could have gone on flirting.
> 
> The attack by Uriel and the others wasn’t as bad as all that. Their demeanor and execusion was somewhere between the thugs who bully queers in films with homophobic plotlines and the kind of misguided admonishments one might expect from angry employers who don’t even understand the work you do, let alone whether it’s been done right or wrong. They shoved me about, (not very roughly), then up against a wall, (not nearly as nice as when you do it). And yes, they struck me, Crowley. But I’m quite a bit older and stronger than all of them, you know. And for all _they_ knew, I still had my flaming sword. It was one punch, followed by threats, sneers, and jeers about my life choices. They’d discovered our relationship, you see. That’s what started it. They thought I was a traitor and said as much. They threatened me and said you couldn’t help me, that you’d be in trouble with yours too, and so on. Looking back on it, they were dreadfully cliche about the whole thing. But what can you expect from them? It’s not like they’re even aware of popular culture.
> 
> As to the, ahem, the Gabriel comments. Well. That was quite a bit more upsetting than being accosted in the street, honestly. Here goes. I figured out Adam’s address, even briefly spoke to his father, and immediately went looking for Gabriel to tell him. I was so delighted there might not have to be a war at all! Crowley, I know you can imagine. You would have received the news the way I did, shared my joy in the possibility of ending the war before it began. Thus, I was so confused when Gabriel insisted, when they all did, that the war was inevitable, that the war was the whole point of everything! I was distraught, and well, it was just then, when I was feeling gutted already, after Gabriel discarded my news. He then ordered me to report to Heaven for war reassignment and to “lose the gut.” That’s it. That’s all it was. A little thing, really. I just felt so distraught in the moment that I took it harder than I normally might have. He patted my midsection and said I was meant to be a hard battle angel or some other nonsense. To be honest, I feel his pat to my gut more today than Sandalphon's punch. I told Gabriel I was no such thing. That I am soft. As the young people use the word these days, you know? Well. I admit I didn’t say that part to his face, he had jogged away, but I am sure he must have heard me.
> 
> There you have it, all my hurts, as you called them. 
> 
> I appreciate your asking, though the telling was a bit more painful than I anticipated. Further proof that I was a wicked cad for choosing angels like these over a delightful demon like you. Whatever you think, I know I deserve your remonstrance. I will spend the rest of our eternity together attempting to make ‘our own side’ worth your wait. Humans say patience is a virtue and use the phrase “patience of saints.” I know you don’t like the comparison, but I want you to know you’re divine to me, dear.
> 
> Sincerely, 
> 
> Your Aziraphale 
> 
> PS- I’ve shown you mine, now you must confess your dirty secret about the night after Tadfield, you wicked tease. It’s only fair. I’m the one doing all the confessing here and you’ve just asked me to open a scabbed-over wound for you. I can guess what you meant, about that night in your flat, I think. But, you see, I don’t want to be wrong. Also, I’m not cross with you for being jealous in Salisbury. Is it awful that I rather appreciate the thought of me making you squirm, for once? Must be that ‘bastard’ tendency you so regard. <3 
> 
> Yes. I looked up some emojis. 0:-) 

Crowley can’t help but smile. Just like Aziraphale to give a spoonful of sugar there at the end. Such a distraction from the lust for revenge that roiled through Crowley's serpentine coils when he'd read that the fuckers actually punched Aziraphale. He'll deal with all that later. For now, how can Crowley even be mad about the love of his life suffering such ill-use when there’s flirtatious banter to attend to? Not to mention turn-of-the-century emojis! Is this what it’s going to be like? After tonight. Their serious conversations will be soothed with innuendo and cheek, more so than ever before. Yes. He wants to wrap this up now. There can’t be much more to say that shouldn’t be said in person anyway. He’ll try and lead them towards a natural conclusion, get them together, face to face, before he crawls out of his skin with longing. 

He gives up on the whole pouting-in-bed routine, hoisting himself to stand with what is surely an exaggerated show of effort. Crowley doesn’t get far.  When he sees his plants he stares. Crowley is transported, feels the memory of new sun and newer love competing for warmth and brightness on his cool, scaled skin. He slides down the wall opposite his atrium and sits on the floor, staring at them and past them, smiling and wistful. He reads Aziraphale’s email again. Is this what hope feels like? Is he optimistic about their night together? The rest of their lives? Crowley tosses out his earlier reservations about word limits and writing too much. He types until his thumbs hurt. Then he thinks the pulsing heat of his bloodstream into the pixels and relishes the send button. 

> _ Nice play, angel. Sharing all that heart-rending stuff then making me smile in the postscript. You're learning. Your email etiquette improved dramatically from one to the next. Good on you.  _
> 
> _ Thank you for sharing those raw wounds. Hope our side is a salve, for that and for everything. Feels like it might be, doesn't it? You said earlier we won the world and each other. I feel a bit like a prizefighter. And you were the only one in an actual altercation. I promise this is the last I'll ask about it, but was their behavior towards the end typical of how the angels treated you over the centuries? I’m wondering because I'd always assumed they -at least- treated you well, is all. I’ll drop the topic after that. Promise. Besides. We seem to have more interesting matters to discuss.  _
> 
> _ You’re right, it’s only fair I confess what I did after Tadfield, since it’s salient to the point I’m making here, isn’t it? And you’re also probably right in your guess. Before my nap, the moment I got myself alone under the covers while you puzzled out Nutter’s last riddle in the other room. Could hear you pacing. Smell you here in my flat. I had a fine and incomparable wank. First one in several decades, actually. Saving the world will do that to you, I guess. But it was more! Saving the world for us, for you and I. For you, angel. Knowing we had another chance, I was overcome. Wishing I could pull you to bed, just like you are, every soft bit of you. Don't you dare put yourself down in my eyes. You're radiant. Succulent. Everything I've ever... the only body I've ever wanted. _
> 
> _ You are soft, angel, and not just in the popular parlance. I want to wipe his insults and slurs from your consciousness. When we’re together, I’ll tell you how much I love your body, angel, every inch of your soft flesh. And not just soft. Strong. I picture you ruining me with those hips of yours. Your arms and shoulders, fuck, you could manhandle me, angel. You're broad where I'm a waif. Sure I've got height and reach on you, but I know if it came to it, you'd overpower me and I'm thrilled to death about it. I can only dream what you’d do to me if you had your way. Like I know you want. Demons sense lust, remember? And yours is a damn torrent.  _
> 
> _ In the heat of you wanting me, I can’t help but to fantasize about you and us. I want you so much I don't even understand it, because I have never wanted anyone else. You'd think a bloody demon would be able to carry on with other people, like you managed to. And I wanted to! I tried. But it was not like I imagine it’s supposed to be, not like my mind and my very essence scream for you when we’re together. Not like the way you described your liaisons with the people you loved.  _
> 
> _ Do you know how embarrassing it is to not be capable of performing as a demon? When that’s at least a third of the whole bloody temptation gig, isn’t it? My workaround was to get people snogging each other and in bed together, rather than with me. But it took a sight too many misfires, encounters I wish I could forget, to reach that conclusion.  _ _ Salisbury was wretched not just because of the jealousy. Aziraphale, I came away thinking we were nothing alike! I'd thought that at least in this one sphere- sex or lack thereof- we shared some deep similarity. That you were like me, less interested and less experienced than one might expect of a six thousand year old being. But no. By ever truly enjoying sex with anyone, you'd exceeded my experience and put me out all together. I mourned the notion of our sexual compatibility for weeks, angel!  _
> 
> _ When I said I wasn't interested in people that way, the emphasis should've really been on the word ‘people.’ Because it’s not people I want. It’s Person. Being. Entity. Just the one. You give me a brainer every day, and a boner besides. Not afraid to say it. Not anymore. I fear the plants are wilting now due to the added humidity of my lusty overheated nature in this room with them. I’ll let you go so I can tend to them and perhaps myself. >;-)  _

\-------

Talk about tingles! Aziraphale’s wings have come out and are positively bustling with the same fizzy anticipation of his entire corporation. He might as well be one of those leaves, overwrought with the heat of Crowley, of demon lust, saturating his skin. His mouth and lips are moist with the imagined dew. Oh, but there are so many misunderstandings here to be addressed. He must collect himself. He waves his hand at the laptop screen and his thoughts flood out in a jumble. Aziraphale takes some minutes to rearrange and organize what he’s trying to say into something intelligible. Then he hits send and laces his fingers together, staring at the screen, then craning his head to look across the room at his telephone, and back again. Aziraphale needs Crowley to respond as quickly as he did before. He simply must! Aziraphale imagines Crowley, perhaps interrupted in ‘taking care of’ himself, and his reaction to these words. 

> Oh sweetheart, 
> 
> This was. Well, this is certainly very much to take in. I am most pleased we didn't try and do this in person now especially. To have this, all of this, where I might come back and reference it from time to time. Thank you, Crowley, so very much. 
> 
> You know I don’t sleep, but I wanted desperately to sleep in your bed with you that night after Tadfield. And I should have. You all but invited me, after we figured out Agnes’s final riddle and made our plan to switch faces. Why didn’t I? Still a coward. I’ve always been such a coward, Crowley, I don’t know how you withstood it.
> 
> I thought this would happen in Salisbury, that our shared stories would crescendo to a moment like this of confessing our mutual desires. I thought, well, more to the point, I *wanted* many things to happen that night. Your colorful descriptions of your conquests quite aroused me, Crowley. I wished to count myself among the list. More than that. To be the last name, no other after me. I do want you desperately, Crowley, as you know. But sensing with our ethereal and occult abilities pales to hearing it voiced, does it not? All this time, since that night, before then, of course. I’ve wanted you. 
> 
> It troubles me that we misunderstood one another so thoroughly in Salisbury. My dearest, I came away thinking we were very much the same in our sex drives. I admit, at first, I was trying to prove myself at least capable of the task, to show you I felt such desires and acted on them, so you wouldn’t go on thinking I was devoid of interest. You see, I'd always assumed you to be a lusty deviant with a vast history of conquest and sexual prowess. I wanted you to know I could be that way too, sort of, in my own way. But oh. It was so heartening to hear your truth and to have my assumptions about your past abolished. I was charmed beyond measure to find you selective, and moreso, disinterested in anyone incapable of arousing your blessed 'brainers.' When I learned we'd had similar histories of misfires and failures to perform, Crowley! After Salisbury, I found myself far more comfortable with the idea of you, of us together, than I ever imagined I would or could! 
> 
> I have also-- I guess it comes out now, as it should-- I have pleasured myself to the vision of us, how we could be. I have imagined what I could do to you, or you to me. Don’t discount your demonic strength, dearest. The things you can do quite astound and enflame my passions. Meanwhile, yes, I could bend you in half and. Ahem. You're right. I want you. Have wanted you, my dear, you must know how long, with your lust-sense and all. 
> 
> And of course, with my visions of our newfound compatibility, came a crushing shame. I couldn’t desire you that way, shouldn’t, wouldn’t, all the self-deprecation and conflict you can well imagine. 
> 
> Especially recently, since the body-swap, I, oh Crowley, I didn't think you were interested at all anymore. When I took your body, my dear, you were like a mannequin. Not even any nipples! I know you typically prefer to incorporate those, due to the tight shirts you’re always sporting. I thought. Well, I thought perhaps you preferred being sexless, which made me more ashamed of my fantasies. Or maybe you didn’t want to share those physical parts of yourself with me? I thought you’d given up making an effort all together because you were no longer interested in that capacity. I mean, it would be fine, of course adjustments could be made. I would be embarrassed at my imaginings, but I would be so happy if our relationship was only mutual, expressed, unburdened, and out in the open. We don’t need to have sex to be happy. Your prior email made it clear disinterest was not the case. Then tell me, please. Were you being modest in hiding your preferred corporation from me? Or were you ashamed?
> 
> Obviously, the experience was just another of the lumps in my throat whenever I tried to talk to you about us, our future. I was surprised and concerned by what I found and have been desperately curious ever since.  If only I’d had a means to part the fathoms between us before now. Bless the humans for this invention of electronic mail. 
> 
> Adoring you, all of you, no matter how you fashion yourself, 
> 
> Your Aziraphale 

\------------

Crowley begins to type and realizes he’ll only be sending a one-line email again, like in the beginning of all this, before dinner. Wouldn’t this be easier on the phone? Surely the angel can’t have anything more to say that isn’t better spoken aloud? And a call would grease the wheel of actual verbal communication before seeing one another. Yes. That makes sense. His thumb swipes to his contacts and just as he’s about to ring up Aziraphale, the mobile starts buzzing in his hand. Crowley smiles and picks up. 

“Impatient are we?” He purrs. 

“Crowley,” he sounds so blissed-out with relief, Crowley almost makes a salacious comment when Aziraphale recovers and says, “Well. It seemed appropriate at this point to telephone, don’t you agree?” 

“Was just about to ring you, yes.” Crowley loves how in sync they seem, all of a sudden. Perhaps they’ve always been so? Now they’re acting on instincts they always ignored before? 

“Oh good. I thought perhaps this would be a suitable bridge between email and in-person.” He pauses for a smile Crowley can somehow hear, and concedes, “And no. I don’t think I could wait anymore.” 

“Love it when you’re eager for something you want.” Crowley’s voice is sinful even to his own ears. Aziraphale said he wanted to get back to flirting. Well, here you go. “Bet you’re wiggling with anticipation aren’t you? Got a proper wiggle on?” And he chuckles, he can’t help it. 

Aziraphale snorts and Crowley can hear the mirth in it. “Now, Crowely. The change in medium does not allow for an alteration of candor, my dear boy.” 

“Laying down the law already? Can’t a demon have a little fun?” He drapes himself sideways in his ornate throne of a desk chair. “I’ve had a long night.” 

“It’s far from over," Aziraphale chides, "remember you’re still hosting me in a few hours.” 

“Hours?" Crowley throws up a hand and hopes Aziraphale can sense his exasperation. "You think we’ll be on the bleeding phone that long?” 

“Well, I don’t know!" Azriaphale sounds like he's moving, gotten up to pace, perhaps. Then Crowley hears the refrigerator open on Aziraphale's end. "Now. Stop dodging and answer my questions from the previous email, if you please?” 

“Which ones? Let’s see.” he smirks as Aziraphale gives a very exaggerated huff while Crowley snaps his open laptop onto the desk in order to read the most recent email without disengaging the angel from his ear. He’s fond of listening to Aziraphale breathe, of having him here, closer than they’ve been since dinner. “Oh. The bit about my corporation?” 

“Yes. I know you were differently equipped than usual because of the nipples, Crowley. Was it shame or modesty? I can’t imagine either from you. So you can understand my confusion.” 

“Are you daft?” Crowley raises his voice, a hand over his eyes, “I couldn’t trust my erogenous zones with you inside them!” 

Aziraphale gasps. Then the line is very quiet, almost silent. 

Crowley’s brain catches up with the words his idiot mouth strung together. He flushes so fast the blood must seize up his larynx, because he can’t so much as ‘Ngk’. Aziraphale has stopped breathing, there is only silence and maybe the distant shifting of something on the other end. Perhaps the angel had to sit down? Crowley clears his throat. Once, then again, even croaks “achem!” out loud for all the good it does him. His skin feels like he’s been branded, all the way up his scalp to the crown of his head. Finally, he hears Aziraphale exhale, but still the silence goes on and Crowley can’t bring his throat to utter any more sounds, so he stammers. Then he quiets again when he hears Aziraphale lick his lips and prepare to speak. 

“Oh my,” Aziraphale whispers at last. He inhales long and deep. “I didn’t think such an innocent, unintentional innuendo would short-circuit me so fully.” Azirapahle’s mouth makes noises, like he’s trying to wet it and failing utterly. Crowley almost pulls the mobile away from his ear so he doesn’t have to hear the moist sounds. “Not after reading the explicit things you typed earlier.” 

“We’re rubbish at this,” Crowley groans. “How wass it sssso much eassier to…” he gives up because of the hissing and hopes Aziraphale knows where he’s going. 

“To discuss sex via words on a screen?” the angel says and then swallows. 

Crowley aches to be there to comfort him, but Crowley’s frozen from the awkwardness of a bloody _telephone call_ How the hell are they supposed to do this in person? What had Aziraphale said earlier? ‘The only way out is through.’ 

“Yesss, exactly.” 

“I don’t know. Old habits, I suppose?” Now Aziraphale does sound defeated. The urge to console turns Crowley’s operating systems back on, like a damn switch. 

“Have you heard what humans say about habits?” Crowley asks, with a good deal of his usual tone restored. “They say it takes three months of consistent change to break a bad habit and replace it with a new one.” His incorporate self can feel the angel brighten on the other end of the line. 

“It’s been almost three months for us, hasn’t it? Since Amrageddon didn’t go off?” 

“Yes. But what’s three months in human life spans to us, do you think? Three years?” 

“Or three decades,” Aziraphale sighs. “And _my_ attempt to do something different only started tonight.” The angel clicks his tongue. “My dear. I refuse to wait another day, let alone months or decades for this new habit of ours to kick in.” 

“What new habit would that be, angel?” Crowley smiles, feeling very much empowered by Aziraphale’s determination. 

“This. All of this. Us. Tonight. Now. We hit a snaggy bit of awkwardness there, but I choose to believe it’s only because we’re new at this. Alright?” 

“Checks out, yeah.” 

“Good.” Aziraphale must be giving them both a tight little nod of his chin. “We are immortal entities and it is damn well time we acted as such.” Aziraphale’s voice picks up authority as he goes on. “If it takes a human three months to learn a new habit, than it should only take us three hours!”

Crowley can’t suppress an enamored laugh. And why should he? New habits! Enamored is how he damn well feels right now. 

“I’m serious, you wiley serpent. Tell me this instant why you thought you needed to hide your erogenous zones from me when we switched. What did you think was going to happen with me… inside them?” 

With one final huff, exhaling the last shred of his embarrassment, Crowley says, “Couldn’t have got through the holy water bath with a flag at full mast the whole time, could you?” Crowley snickers at the image and is thrilled when Aziraphale’s sing-song chuckle joins him. 

“Oh! My dear! That would have been a sight. Aroused for your execution! Positively madder than any performance I could come up with.” 

Crowley barks a laugh, then clears his throat. “ We were in new territory. How was I to know my body wouldn’t be aroused the whole bloody time by having you inhabit it, eh?” Crowley’s confidence grows with Aziraphale’s giggles. “Be honest, angel. You  were just disappointed you couldn't feel me up. ”

“Crowley! Did you feel me up?” 

“No! I swear! Wanted to. But it was weird.” Crowley feels a sort of divine chill cycle down his spine; he’s come to know this as Aziraphale’s nice and accurate lie-detector of angelic insight. Didn’t know it worked remotely. He clears his throat. “Not very sporting, that. You do know trust is important in a new relationship, angel?” 

“Sorry,” Aziraphale mutters. Crowley can feel he means it, but perhaps the angel doesn’t regret scanning Crowley like a bag at an airport? His demonic empathy is a bit distorted by his annoyance. Aziraphale sighs. “Our relationship isn’t exactly new. But. No, you’re right. I do apologize, my dear, truly. Old habits, again.” 

“Then you’ve got three hours to shut that shit down, angel,” Crowley smiles. “And I will be timing you.” 

Aziraphale laughs and there’s relief in the distance between them. “Thank you, dearest. I would expect nothing less.” 

“Where was I?” Crowley kicks his knee, bouncing his boot up and down in the air over the arm of his second favorite piece of furniture. “I wouldn’t have done. I was hypervigilant about the whole you being permanently annihilated thing.  It was bad enough, your pure, divine soul being in my demon body, angel. I wasn’t going to have you dealing with my bait and tackle on top of it. The nipples might have been overboard, I grant you…” 

“Wait a moment, dear.” Aziraphale never interrupts. Crowley knows this, because he always feels like a cock interrupting the angel all the time. He stops bouncing his leg. Aziraphale asks, “What do you mean by ‘bad enough’?” 

Crowley thinks, “I… um?” 

“You knew by the time of the swap that I wasn’t all that ‘pure’ and ‘divine’ any more than you’re all that ‘malicious’ and ‘evil.’ After Tadfield, you still thought your human vessel would somehow sully my incorporeal self?”

Crowley sniffs. “Well. When you put it like that.” 

“Oh, Crowley! We’ve spent so much time on my self-esteem issues, we never even touched on yours!” There’s that dreaded pitying tone to his voice. Crowley has always hated being pitied. He tries to strip the disgust from his mouth before he replies. 

“Will take longer than I’d like to be on the phone tonight angel, to get through those layers of dirt.” He hears the angel sigh, but doesn’t give him a chance to add anything. “Still don’t know why you trusted the entirety of your corporation to me, truly, angel. Guess I assumed you rarely get aroused anyway, and then only for your _special_ humans.” Crowley grimaces. Shit. He’s too quick to strike when his vulnerability is threatened. “Sorry, I…” 

“Let’s move on to the Tadfield portion of our recent correspondence, shall we?” The angel says, all business-casual, too stuffy to be relaxed, too airy to be professional.

“Yeah, alright,” Crowley exhales like the guilty party he is for that one. 

“I wanted so badly to attempt to sleep next to you, in your bed. I…” 

_ “ _ Angel, if you’d gotten in that bed with me, we wouldn’t have been sleeping, I can assure you.” Crowley gets up to make himself a drink, something satisfying about the twist of the cork, the sound of the pour. 

“I know, of course.” 

Crowley continues as if the angel hasn’t spoken. “I was keyed up that night, ready to pounce. Was exhausted, but I wanted you more than sleep. Don’t remember if I slept, either. Sure I did eventually.” He takes a long, loud swallow of whiskey that has him hissing on the end with the burn. “How are you feeling? All this commiserating about what terrible creatures we are lifted your spirits, eh?” 

“Crowley,” now Aziraphale sounds terse. Crowley grimaces. He knows he deserves the coming lecture. “I was going to say I’d like to try sleeping in your bed tonight.” 

This time Crowley can manage a hearty “Ngk!” 

“If you’re not too keyed up, I suppose.” The bastard sounds like he’s smirking around the rim of a glass. Crowley loves him so hard his muscles ache with the effort. 

Crowley swallows. “I think you’re safe, tonight, angel.”

“Oh?” Aziraphale sets something down and Crowley hears it clink. 

“Remember the Salisbury portions of the emails?” Crowley grouses. The only way out is through. They’re not talking about this when they’re together later. Get it over with now. “After Salisbury, you felt we were more compatible than you’d imagined. I left Salsisbury terrified I’d be unable to live up to your memories of your chosen few, those special fellows with whom you so passionately enjoyed your 'sexual congress.’” And Crowley snarls, tries to cover up the sound with his hand. “M’sorry,” he mutters. 

“My dear. Oh, my dear heart. Never! I mean, anything we do will be incomparable. Utterly superior. For you see, I never...” 

“You have, though!” Crowley interrupts and inwardly growls at himself for it, but has to get this all out. “Couldn’t get this body to do what it’s told for anything. Had to use powers to keep myself wet or hard or whatever. I blame you, you know.” 

“Excuse me?!” 

“Couldn’t get you out of my head, is all. Not that I’m complaining. You did it on purpose sometimes didn't you? Especially after the Arrangement and you got the hang of tempting people. I know you enjoy a good meal, but sometimes, angel, I swore you were practicing one of your amateur temptations on me.” 

“Amateur? Crowley! How dare you? When we get together later, I’m bringing strudel and I’ll show you amateur hour, dear boy.” 

“I knew it!” Crowley whoops, then in his best angel voice: “You vile tempter, you.” 

Aziraphale sighs. Crowley can hear fondness, but feel weariness in the ether between them. “My dear, you interrupted me twice just now and I was trying to make a point.” 

“M’sorry. Hate it when I do that. Go on then.”

“I am confident any physical intimacy of ours will be unparalleled to any of our past experiences, because of how we feel about one another, my dear.” Aziraphale swallows. Crowley's heartbeat is making his stomach ache. He clenches and unclenches his fingers as though grasping at the feeling of mounting certainty between he and Aziraphale. He wants to say something, but Aziraphale continues. “I believe we've reached the end of what should be said on telephone haven't we? I am so flustered now.” Aziraphale is biting his lip, Crowley can absolutely _sense_ it. “You know what I want to say now, of course. There is nothing left to say at the moment.” 

“ Don’t you dare say THAT, angel. Not on the phone, you bastard.” Crowley leaps from his chair, coat on and keys in hand. “I’ll never forgive you for it. So there! Now you can’t. This whole blasted endeavour was about clean slates, forgiveness and all, right? Hah. I’m coming over.”

“No, not here! I’m coming to you.” 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Holiday Update!  
I'm incapable of writing such fluff for weeks without also writing an [ Intermission of Smut ](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21886027/chapters/52238593)
> 
> My brain just works that way. Please enjoy the porn, if you like! 
> 
> Chap4- with their up close and personal love overflowing- is coming around. I thought I could finish it as fast as the first three, but it's too much!! Omgosh, these two. I love them so.


	4. A Peace Lily Wins a Longstanding Bet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley will need 6000 more years to reacquaint himself with the angel he’s loved for as long. He can’t bloody wait for the education.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For your patience and endurance in waiting for the finale to post, I give you the longest single chapter of fanfic I've ever written, but also the news: this will now be a series. Thank you for your support, comments, and appreciation. I love this fandom. 
> 
> Amazing things happened since I posted Chapter 3: 
> 
> [ Beautiful fanart ](https://twitter.com/lowez_/status/1209883236433829888) for the fic by the lovely [ @Lowez ](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lowez/pseuds/lowez)  
  
I wrote some [ ineffable smut! ](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21886027/chapters/52238593)  
(and am still writing, plus I commissioned nsfw fanart and you guys are going to **love** it).  


Aziraphale is flying. 

Crowley feels him up there, but can’t see him. The Bentley pulls over so rapidly- without Crowley so much as hitting the brake or turning the wheel- she jumps the curb with her front tire. Looking up through the glass, Crowley spots his gorgeous angel in flight, dawdy old clothes juxitposing his magnificent wings. Crowley feels a sudden regret. If he hadn’t sped out of the flat towards the book shop, Aziraphale might’ve soared to his penthouse, landed fervently upon his balcony with a metal clang like a heavenly gong, and thrown open the glass doors with a thought. Damn. That would’ve been romantic as sin. Oh well. This works too. Maybe he’ll ask Aziraphale to do a surprise balcony visit for him some other time? He smiles. A swooping, big angelic entrance would suit a number of delicious scenarios. 

Aziraphale descends, one knee bent, one foot pointed to the sidewalk, delicate and gentle in his landing like a ballet dancer set upon the stage by his partner. He is too far away, half a block at least. He must have seen the Bentley from above and misjudged how quickly she’d screech to a halt. Aziraphale’s wings fold and disappear as he straightens his coat. Pity. Well, Crowley can see them later. Yes, wings will most definitely come out to play again. He shakes his head. Crowley realizes he’s still in the car, opens the door, and the angel is running- running!- down the sidewalk towards him. This is it. He swallows, stands, closes the door. 

Crowley jogs the last three strides to meet Aziraphale and their embrace is all-consuming. 

He’s nervous. Why is he so nervous when Aziraphale is here, holding him, nuzzling into his taut neck? Tension has seized Crowley’s shoulders and nape. He tries to roll it out, rubbing his chin in heavy semi-circles into Aziraphale’s crown. That’s affectionate, right? It feels good, a bit calming. It helps. He’s not going to cry, though the urge wells up in him. Everything wells up. Any feeling he’s ever felt is here all at once, trying to be free of his inexpressive form. Crowley tilts his head and flattens the side of his face in Aziraphale’s plushy curls. Tickling little hairs threaten to invade Crowley’s eyelids and - ah-ha- that’s what he’ll cite as an excuse for any errant wetness. Unable to control both his body and spirit, Crowley’s pent-up emotional energy bursts forth, overflowing from the ether. 

Spontaneous little flowers sprout from the (very surprised) weeds growing out of every crack in the sidewalk. Crowley doesn't notice. If he did, he'd be embarrassed and cross with the plants for making a scene. As his secrets flood out of him, Crowley holds on tighter, with a soft squeeze and a press of fingers to the angel’s shoulder and waist. His lips feel parched by the angel’s softness. His body absorbs the warmth of Aziraphale, and still it doesn’t feel like enough contact. He can’t say the words he feels with every atom of his being, so the sense of them projects forth from his essence instead. 

_ I love you. With all that I am. _He clings tighter, feels his wings in the ether surrounding his angel as though to encase and protect him forever. 

Aziraphale answers in a chorus of emotions Crowley feels as a sudden recollection of hymns sung by the Heavenly Host. Only this praise belongs to Crowley alone, from his angel. This is _ his. _

It seems Crowley _ can _ articulate something, finding his breath at last, he exhales: “I am yours.” His voice is crusty and he smirks at the sound of it. What an embarrassing wreck. 

Aziraphale nods emphatically against his chest, his arms squeezing Crowley’s waist. A sudden ripple of sensation beats angelic _Mine, Yours, Ours, _like a sonic wave between them. Crowley wonders if that’s a frequency only dogs can hear? Or is this meant for ethereal and occult ears? And who among those hordes might be listening? Doesn’t matter. He shakes his head softly against Aziraphale. Crowley’s answering thrum of _Yours _harmonizes with his angel’s. 

A pulse of joy hits his core and Crowley thinks this connection in their true selves might be better than sex. Of course, his mind can’t _go_ _there_ without Aziraphale sensing it. Crowley immediately tastes and perceives the angel’s familiar lust on the breeze. 

_ No. Not now _ , his mind argues. _ We have forever, all the time to try everything, but we’ve only just discovered _ ** _this_ **. He squeezes. Crowley wants to steep in their love, their possessive, desperate, long-overdue expressions of love, and to come out a fattened plump tea bag, oversaturated leaves of his soul a slimey mess of adoration. Still, it will not be enough to sate him of these emotions. But perhaps then, after he is full of this feeling, they can try other ways of expression. In answer, he senses the angel’s lust receding and a tide of love swells in its place. More than love. Acceptance. Trust. 

Crowley’s always known, but now more than ever, Aziraphale is everything.

\------------------

Urgency beats Aziraphale’s wings as he soars towards Mayfair. Then he senses Crowley, sees the Bentley. Of course. Aziraphale feels a swell of triumph, of completeness, when they see one another. Their eyes connect as he descends and Crowley stares, watching from inside the car. The charged air of the street prickles with their anticipation, proximity, and understanding; Aziraphale feels a spark roll through his cheeks when he inhales. They crescendo into each other’s arms, bodies and souls singing for contact. There is so much more to say and there are no words worthy of the experience of holding and being held. They aren’t breathing, only holding on, fingers in fabric and hair, until they exhale all at once, together. Cheeks pressed close, they each feel the other’s exhale on the skin of the scalp or neck. Aziraphale feels Crowley huff a laugh and Aziraphale smiles into a sigh. Their arms tighten, legs overlap and lace together so that thighs are squeezed by thighs and groins press into hips. And still they do not speak, or pull away enough to look at one another, or to kiss. They only hold and press and relax into the other. And it is perfect. Their embrace is an achievement and a reward. A conclusion and a beginning. They both feel all of it in the ether, the possibilities of their conjoined future ebbing and flowing all around them now that they are _ together like this _. 

The words of famous speeches echo in Aziraphale’s mind: “let no man tear asunder,” and “we shall go on to the end,” and “shall not perish from this Earth,” among others. Voices of commanding authority echo in his mind and become his own soul speaking to the universe. _ This. This union is mine. He is mine. _ Crowley must hear his refrain, or feel it somehow in his spirit, because he flinches, shudders, and his fingers grapple with Aziraphale’s shoulders, as though trying to find a way to dig in harder. 

“I am yours,” Crowley’s strained voice croaks into his hair. Aziraphale barely contains a sob of joy, his soul singing out confirmation, validation, yes, yes, yes, instead of his mouth. And Aziraphale can swear he feels Crowley’s wings trying to tear their way into his own. In the liminal reality beyond their bodies, feathers are blending with feathers, incorporeal air is beating and pulsing. Aziraphale can’t help but imagine their bodies coming together. If a fully-clothed embrace creates such a sensual connection, then what if…?! He immediately feels Crowley’s energy respond that sexual thoughts are too much. Aziraphale understands. He hooks his chin over Crowley’s shoulder, rubs his palms up and down Crowley’s back. _ It’s true, my love, _ Aziraphale thinks. _ This is so much, already! _

They both feel love. Aziraphale can feel them both feeling it, sharing the sensation of overpowering love between their bodies and minds and whatever’s on the other side. Then Crowley huffs a big sigh into Aziraphale's scalp. Aziraphale smiles as his hair puffs up around the warm exhale. He feels Crowley swallow before he speaks. Aziraphale doesn’t shift to look at him, only holds on and listens. 

"Wouldn’t you know?” Crowley grouses. At least he seems to have found his voice. “Seems now I don't know _ how _ to say what we came here to say." 

Aziraphale sobs a laugh and clings so much tighter to Crowley's jacket he thinks he might be ripping the shoulder seam. He wets his lips and exhales: "Thank goodness! Neither can I!” Aziraphale chuckles, loosening his grip, and splays his fingers over the poor, abused seams. He whispers, “Find the words, I mean. You must know I feel them so ardently." Shaking his head at the absurdity of it all, he ends up nuzzling their temples together.

"Suppose we’ll learn together, yeah?” Crowley’s pets down between Azriaphale’s shoulders and back up to his neck. He noses above Aziraphale’s ear. “Find words our own way?" 

"Yes.” Aziraphale answers, voice wet and his cheeks quick to follow, tears leaking free. “Yes, darling, please." How could this have taken so long and still be so flawless, so perfect, for the waiting? He squeezes Crowley with his arms and his thighs, clutching as much of him as possible, trying not to grind or be suggestive, only desperate. Desperate isn’t bad, is it? Certainly not now. He can’t bring himself to look up at Crowley. "It's like when we were on the phone, it’s still too mortifying to speak aloud."

Aziraphale feels Crowley’s jaw working, like he wants to say more, but he manages to swallow, then nod and say: "Agreed." 

\-------

Crowely lips won’t stop grinning, his cheeks feel achy with the discomfort of smiling so much tonight. Aziraphale lifts his head finally from Crowley’s shoulder, only to nuzzle his nose up the side of Crowley’s neck. With eyes softly closed, he positions himself so their foreheads are bent together, resting upon each other. Aziraphale lets out a wisp of mirthful breath before he speaks.

“Anathema and Marjorie are going to be so happy for us,” he says across Crowley’s cheekbone. Aziraphale speaking into his skin- what an odd, fabulous sensation! Aziraphale makes his way to Crowley’s insignia and says to his ear, “We should visit them soon. As a couple, don’t you think?” 

“Must we?” Crowley groans and before Aziraphale can answer, he leans back against the Bentley, pulling Aziraphale with him, rocking the angel off his balance just enough that he falls forward to lean on Crowley. Aziraphale catches himself with one hand on the roof of the car. They look at each other then, eye to eye, for the first and billionth time. Crowley feels somehow more natural like this, less nervous. He smirks easily and steady. “Hey, just don’t go telling them about this little stunt of yours.” 

Aziraphale plants his other hand on the rear window, pushing himself off Crowley’s chest in faux affrontation. “My dear boy,” he practically bites at Crowley’s lips and Crowley wants to kiss him, but doesn’t, not yet. “I’ll never admit to another living soul how we finally got our act together. This is our embarrassing secret until the end of days. Yes?” 

Crowley nods, fixated on Aziraphale’s lips. “We’ll conjure some other version of events.” 

“Quite right. Drunken slip of the tongue.” 

Crowley leans in, so close, whispers on Aziraphale’s mouth, “Or 18th century love sonnets.” 

“Crowley!” Aziraphale rears away, regains his footing and beams so brightly Crowley can forgive him the sudden distance. “Did you ever write me a sonnet, truly?” 

“Mmh, might’ve done.” Crowley shrugs, hands clinging tightly to the sides of Aziraphale’s waist, so he doesn’t get too far. “Did you for me?” 

Aziraphale follows the gentle pull of Crowley’s arms, leans forward into him, lips ghosting over his cheek again. Eyes playful and pure and loving, when he says, “Of course, my dear. Though I’d hardly call them sonnets. Perhaps limericks?” 

“The dirty kind?” Crowley’s tongue comes out with forked tips, laps at Aziraphale, teasing. He’s bolder on the surface than he feels deep inside. 

“Perhaps,” Aziraphale answers, tone and eyes confident, like he’s ever used this suggestive voice with Crowley before. Aziraphale juts his chin slyly, so proud of himself, his fond eyes growing full and sensual. Crowley stares, tries not to gape. Everything is new; every look, touch, and even this open interest-- transparent and uncaring who sees-- is a novelty. Crowley will need 6000 more years to reacquaint himself with the angel he’s loved for as long. He can’t bloody wait for the education. Aziraphale dials up the meter a few more ticks, maybe feeling the same thrill of the unknown. “Now, I’d rather like to reward you properly for your patience, if you don’t mind?” 

“Well.” Crowley swallows and tries not to look petrified, overeager, or exploding with nervous lust. He feels each conflicting urge with increasing intensity. “I did soldier on, didn’t I?” This is working. Crowley can do this. Somehow, it all feels right, melding their old habits with new physicality. Just need to settle in, adjust, and hold on. “Guessing you’re not offering me the catacombs or the ossuary just now?” Aziraphale tsks and his hips tilt inward to meet Crowley’s. A shiver of trepidatious longing slithers up Crowley’s neck. He plays it off. “You can write maddening emails anytime you like, angel, if it gets you fired up like this.” He tightens his grip on the sides of Aziraphale’s waist, nails digging into the layers of clothing just a touch. He’s done this a dozen times. There’s a script that fits. “My place or yours?” 

“Crowley, please,” Aziraphale breathes out and worries his lip. “If you don’t mind.” He tugs on the ends of Crowley’s tie, gentle, playful, but there’s a restrained power in his loose fists, like he wants to drag Crowley to his knees, or to his lips. Yes, please. Bend me to your will. “Take me back to your flat.” 

“Yours is closer.” Crowley answers because the old script doesn’t actually fit them at all, does it? It’s obvious they’re not going to his cold, hard flat just now. They’re going somewhere soft and comfortable, somewhere that’s practically _ theirs _, for all the nights they’ve spent together in those warm walls of books. “Bentley’s already facing that way,” he says trying to soothe Aziraphale’s clear frustration that Crowley asked a question, then countered Aziraphale’s honest answer. 

“I suppose…” the angel tuts. He sucks in his cheek, twisting his lips to one side, unconvinced. 

Crowley digs a finger in at Aziraphale’s ribs, an attempt to tickle. Which works, because the angel cracks a smile and squirms, trying not to laugh. Crowley grins, “Besides, I’ve got to lay eyes on this ridiculous computer which started all this between us,”

“Oh, Crowley, no. You’ll only make fun!”

“I will not. I mean only to show the device my sincerest appreciation,” he tugs Aziraphale in close again, arms about his waist. And now is the moment. Now should be the kiss.

Aziraphale leans up, closes the distance. And. Crowley turns his blasted head, gets a press of his angel’s lips to his cheek. It was reflex and he couldn't help it. And if Aziraphale is disappointed, he doesn’t so much as flinch, only smiles against Crowley’s cheek and gives him another peck for good measure before teasing:

“Come along then, dearest. I don’t think I’ve seen you administer sincere appreciation to anything besides this old car,” he pats the Bentley, as though apologizing for the insult. “I should enjoy the spectacle.” 

\------------------------

Aziraphale had forgotten about the antique computer, from the 90s, the schlocky, plasticky thing. It’d been a background prop in his mind’s eye all these years since he last used it for his accounts. He’d hired someone to take an annual look at his meticulously detailed financial books and submit the proper forms electronically ever since filing taxes via the internet became the norm. And rightly so, by Crowley’s reaction. 

“Angel, I’d call this device of yours a paperweight, but the reverse seems to be true.” He’s not wrong. The computer and keyboard are covered in disarrayed papers and letters, every bit as yellowed with age as the hardware itself. Aziraphale is a bit embarrassed, truth be told, that he’s never thought to make better use of that lovely desk in the last decade. 

“Actually,” Aziraphale tugs at his waistcoat and dithers with the chain of his watch. He understands now why Crowley wanted to come here. With this tiny aired acknowledgement of love between them, he’s seeing everything in his home with new eyes. Suddenly wishes he’d tidied up a bit, and just as quickly chides himself. As though there was any reason whatsoever to present his home differently! He smiles. “I don’t believe I’ve turned that machine on this decade.” 

“Looks it,” Crowley acknowledges, but he seems fidgety as though he picked up on Aziraphale’s thoughts. Only imagine if they’d been at the flat! Crowley is a bundle of nerves on a good day and if he’d been half as self-conscious about the state of his surroundings as Aziraphale is now, their conversation would have devolved into squawks and hisses in record time. 

Aziraphale steps to the larger desk he’d been using all evening and pulls out a snappy, leather briefcase. He sets it on the tall stool behind his counter and till. “This, actually, is what I was using earlier tonight.” 

A delighted laugh spills out of Crowley as Aziraphale produces an Apple iBook of a cloudy turquoise hue, circa 2003. 

“Where did you _ find _ that?!” Crowley cries, reaching out, but seemingly afraid to touch it. 

“I bought this lovely thing when it first came out, actually.” This is not a conversation that would have ever caused a blush, before, Aziraphale is sure of that. Yet, here he is, pink cheeked and twiddling his fingers along the edges of the laptop after he sets it down on the case. He recovers himself to shrug and swallow. “But, I never actually took it out of the packaging or turned it on before tonight, you see.”

“Hmph.” Crowley lays his fingers reverently atop the cloudy two-tone laptop and looks solemn for a moment. The way he gets with the Bentley, sometimes, like he’s communing with whatever life electronics may possess. Aziraphale watches with fondness, but soon grows uncomfortable in their silence. He’s lost the rhythm of their typical banter, can’t recall the steps of their usual dance. Aziraphale wishes Crowley would take the lead again, like when he called, but that’s probably unfair. Crowley opens the laptop and marvels at the newness, skipping his fingers over the keys, making them clickety-clack. Aziraphale steps close, stills that typing hand with his own and coaxes Crowley to turn toward him. 

“Now, my dear,” he runs his hands up the sides of Crowley’s arms to his shoulders. “I do believe we came here to continue our evening, not talk about my outdated electronics?” 

Crowley swallows. “Continue.” His eyes scan the room behind Aziraphale, seemingly unsure where to land. “Yeah.” He clears his throat. “What did you have, uh… ngk.” He waves a hand like he’s wiping away that train of thought, then settles his palm on the back of his neck. “Nevermind. Stupid question.” 

Dear Heavens.

“Crowley, you’re nervous!” Aziraphale exclaims. It sounds absurdly like a question, laced with disbelief. But Aziraphale won’t give Crowley a chance to take offense. “Well of course you are!” He barrels forward. “I’m being callous, aren’t I? Here I am, fit to dissolve in a puddle myself and I...” Aziraphale fiddles with his gold chain. “I apologize, my dear, truly. I’ve gone and discounted everything you said in your lovely emails.” 

Aziraphale suddenly begins to understand the concept of virtual reality, how humans can have whole other identities and lives online. His memories of their typed, pixelated words, the feelings emitted within all that text seem like another lifetime. Perhaps the way humans describe dreaming? It doesn’t feel real. 

Crowley echoes his distress by admitting: “Tck. Don’t know what to say to you now. How to act.” 

“Oh!” Aziraphale frets and clenches his fists. “I hope I haven’t made you so uncomfortable, dear?” 

“Not exactly.” Crowley swallows. He takes off his glasses and looks at Aziraphale, a show of bravery, but also trust and comfort which Aziraphale didn’t realize he desperately needed from Crowley just now. Aziraphale smiles his appreciation into those gorgeous, golden eyes. Crowley nods and sets the glasses aside on a bookshelf, leaning neatly against three dusty, worn spines. Crowley’s things should seem out of place here, and yet those silly shades belong just there. Aziraphale unclenches his fists and fidgets once more with his watch chain. 

Crowley leans against an archway. “Keep wanting to make jokes,” he sighs through his nostrils, closes his eyes and opens them, too wide and pleading a look for Aziraphale, “but this isn’t funny.” 

“Tonight’s not so grave as all that, surely?” 

“Doesn’t seem right to make light of all this,” Crowley gestures between them. There’s nothing funny about the dead weight of Crowley’s body right now, how he’s holding his corporation as though it might slide down the wall, melt into serpentine coils, and sleep for a year. Well, that makes sense. Aziraphale realizes there’s nothing in Crowley’s vast repertoire to substitute for casual humor. The poor thing’s at a loss without poking fun. 

“Come now, dear boy, some bits of tonight were certainly amusing.” Aziraphale leans forward, offering, hoping. 

“Sure, yeah.” Crowley smirks and looks down at his boots, like he needs a pebble to kick. Why won’t he take the bait, try for a jab, or play it cool? Oh, Aziraphale must do everything, mustn’t he? Perhaps he’s earned these labors as penance for his millennia not taking the lead. Well, he might as well enjoy it. 

“It’s a simple matter of disjointed realties, isn’t it?” Aziraphale reasons and Crowley arches a brow. “For example, right now, I can hear your voice in my head saying, ‘incomparable wank,’ and...” Crowley cringes and recoils so hard he would’ve fallen backward if not braced by the corner of the wall. Aziraphale smiles and toes a bit closer. 

Crowley swallows, blinking, about to protest. 

Aziraphale shakes his head. “Obviously, the Crowley I know would never say ‘incomparable wank’ to me. You’ve never said anything remotely like ‘incomparable wank’ in my presence.” 

“STOP _ saying ‘ _ incomparable wank,’ you bastard!” Crowley throws his arms out. Aziraphale can almost see his great wings surging to fill the archway beyond the reach of those expressive fingers. “YOU!” Crowley stomps one long stride toward him, and Aziraphale loves the smile trying to break free of Crowley’s scowling embarrassment. Crowley growls and jabs a finger in Aziraphale’s chest, “ _ You _ threatened to seduce me with a strudel! Said you’d ‘ _ show me _’ temptation!” Crowley glowers over him, gold eyes glaring mockery and not a little bit of mirth.

Here is Crowley, at last.

Aziraphale smiles and steps away, turning slightly, he side-eyes Crowley and says, “I still might, you know.” 

They are silent for all of three seconds before they both start chuckling. Small huffs build to chortles and Crowley clutches at Aziraphale’s shoulder to brace himself while he bark-laughs and Aziraphale wheezes with his own gentle guffaw. 

Aziraphale wipes his eyes as he says, “There now. It’s simply a matter of reconciling our real selves with the versions of each other we encountered in those emails.” Aziraphale smiles with an unaffected and dignified air as he tugs his waistcoat down, straightens his shoulders, he says, “As dreadfully difficult as that sounds, I know.” 

“Impossible, really,” Crowley agrees and he squeezes Aziraphale’s shoulder once, before straightening up, still grinning. 

“So you see? Now you’re here, I’m afraid I defaulted to my usual imagining of you. Despite it all. I. I am sorry, Crowley.” 

“S’okay, angel. Like you said, disjointed realities, yeah?” Crowley’s nonchalance is back in full demonic magnificence. “Your imagining of me,” he hums, lips curling. And he looks comfortable in this skin again and Aziraphale adores him. “Let’s start there, yeah?” Crowley gestures to the chaise behind them. 

“How do you mean?” Aziraphale starts.

Crowley walks backwards, beckoning Aziraphale to follow and plops himself in an elaborate sprawl, even for him. One leg stretches the length of the couch, the other foot on the floor, displaying himself, Aziraphale can’t help but notice, wide and welcoming. “Tell me what you imagined, angel.” 

“Oh!” Aziraphale catches on, but hesitates joining Crowley on the couch. He walks closer, but doesn’t sit yet. “Well. Crowley the tempter, of course.” He takes a pointed glance at Crowley’s expansive man-spreading. “Crowley the instigator, the troublemaker.” He winces at that last one, because he doesn’t want to imply that any of this feels like ‘trouble’ anymore. When he looks up at Crowley’s eyes, the demon is grinning a wicked little serpent smile. 

“I can be that for you, I think.” Crowley leans forward to take Aziraphale’s hand. “Only, perhapsss...” He seats Aziraphale on the couch, facing forward, his backside nudging Crowley’s lower thigh and the knobby joint of his knee. It would be uncomfortable, but it’s too exciting to be positioned like this- close but not _ too _ close to sitting wedged into Crowley’s lap. Crowley takes one of Aziraphale’s hands, his thumb strokes between two tendons on the back; and how is it possible that this sensation should tingle up through his shoulder to just behind his ear? Crowley is smiling. “Not sso fassst as you imagined?” 

Aziraphale turns to counter this unfair teasing about the dreaded ‘too fast’ fiasco, but his face meets Crowley’s and their lips touch for a flinching kiss. Crowley’s eyes open wide and search Aziarpahale’s. Crowley swallows. 

“Tempt you to take our time, mm?” He’s looking at Azirpahale’s lips, now. “Get to know one another like thissss?” He squeezes Aziraphale’s hand, one claw digging a tiny divot. 

Aziraphale nods, “You did say I was ‘safe’ from you tonight, on the phone,” he smiles, ghosting his lips over Crowley’s once more. Moving gently, ever so gently with parted lips that glide up Crowley’s cheek; Aziraphale wants Crowley to elaborate, needs to give him time, and hopes his little kisses will help, rather than hurt. 

\-----------

Crowley’s other hand wants to descend from the spine of the couch and into Aziraphale’s hair, hold him close so the angel keeps kissing him. But he tenses up again, damn it, flexes his fingers and plants them firmly on the rough upholstery. His bravado is only getting him so far. He wants too much, too many conflicting things: to ravage and be ravaged; to just hold and be held; to talk for hours and never speak again; and he’s shutting down due to the paralysis of choice. He knows this. And he can do something about it. He can. Buck up, demon. Crowley presses Aziraphale’s palm and the angel leans his face away so Crowley can see his beautiful, inquisitive eyes.

“Had no options with you for so long,” Crowley tries to explain, “now I’ve too many.”

Aziraphale inhales, long and deep. He closes his eyes. “I know,” he exhales. 

Crowley isn’t convinced. Aziraphale is making this whole evening look like a routine miracle or temptation, followed by a spot of supper back in the high times of the Arrangement. Meanwhile Crowley is frustrated and wrong-footed and antsy for something, anything, to feel _ right _ again. Every instinct in him saying the only good move is to eject Aziraphale from the couch with a shove, hoist himself up, out of this bookshop, and go sleep it off. Hmph. He bets the Bentley wouldn’t even start if he stormed out now. Well, he could walk. Come back when the emails aren’t so fresh on his mind.“We barely debriefed all of _ that. _” He says more to himself than the angel. Aziraphale tilts his head, questioning. Crowley clears his throat, loud and labored. “The emails.” He groans. “Still.” Crowley rolls his eyes. Because shouldn’t he be over this by now? What’s it been- an hour?- since they were on the phone? Plenty of time to adjust one’s millenia-long boundaries, expectations, and behaviors. Yeah. 

Aziraphale breathes out slowly. Crowley tries not to brace himself too noticeably for whatever his angel is about to say. 

“I can’t believe we came away from Salisbury with such differing impressions.” Aziraphale’s voice might be trying for levity, but Crowley can hear an aborted apology somewhere in the angel’s throat. Crowley doesn’t say anything, doesn’t trust himself to say the right thing about Salisbury, given how the word makes his muscles coil and his fangs threaten to elongate. Aziraphale takes his silence the wrong way and chuckles to himself. He lifts back up to his prior seated position, looking out at the shop in his musing. “We should go back to Salisbury again, soon. Make a better, more mutual memory there, don’t you think?” Aziraphale doesn’t notice Crowley grimacing. 

“Salisbury will never see the likes of me again, angel.” Crowley says flatly and then gulps at how harsh he can be when the angel’s shoulders tighten. 

“But…” 

“Nothing for me in Salisbury is there? Just a bloody tall church.”

“We had our first kiss in Salisbury!” 

“Not counting Salisbury as our first kiss. I demand a do-over.” 

“Oh dear, don’t say that! I adored our little kiss that night. It was so significant, I refuse to write it off. Besides our next kiss can still be a ‘first’ can it not? First kiss in the French style?” 

Crowley stops himself from laughing too late and it comes out an undignified, throaty type of snort. He would’ve done a spit-take if he’d been drinking. “French style,” he repeats, grinning wickedly. He licks his lips and feels the angel’s there, still. 

“We… eh.” Crowley starts and his mind thanks Aziraphale in every language he remembers for staying quiet while he tries to order his thoughts. “We got ourselves so bloody worked up we just _ had _ to come rushing to see each other, yeah?” 

“Now we’re together, with all the rather arousing things we typed,” Aziraphale smirks at him, but there’s no temptation in it. Crowley can’t feel any lust in the angel. He’s either holding back or genuinely not feeling it at the moment. Crowley doesn’t know which he prefers. 

“And I don’t know how to bloody start and it’s…” Crowley admits and then can’t finish the thought. Aziraphale rescues him, thank someone. 

“Well, it’s a bit awkward, darling, isn’t it?” Aziraphale runs a hand up Crowley’s chest, stopping at his collar, fiddling the edge in his fingers. 

“Fuck!” Crowley exclaims, flailing one hand off the back of the couch, the other covering his eyes. “Yes. It’s awkward as heaven and I hate it!” He loves the angel for saying it, though, and both hands come round to squeeze him tight, just once, before abandoning the action-- awkwardly. “Damn embarrassing, too.” 

Aziraphale’s fingers tighten in the cloth of his tee shirt. Now he’s gone and left his angel speechless. Which should be impossible! And in the next moment, he wishes it had been. 

“Embarrassing how, dearest?” Aziraphale asks. 

“Nggss,” Crowley hisses through his teeth. He’s afraid saying it out loud means they might as well stop what they’re doing and give it over as a lark. And Crowley won’t have that. Pretend it’s an email. Blurt it out, you damnable demon. “Always felt so frustrated at the company picnics when the others described their overwhelming lust, like hunger, and the hunt for fulfilment; how sated they’d be for days after a temptation well achieved.” Crowely shivered. “Turned my stomach, all that talk.” 

Aziraphale looks up at him. His fingers release Crowley’s collar and flare over the lapels of his jacket, petting down both sides, soft and firm and reassuring. “Oh, dearest. I can’t imagine what you endured, being you, in the face of _ them.” _And Crowley adores the way Aziraphale spits the word, remembers Aziraphale’s descriptions of the denizens of hell he encountered.

“I’d use you as my cleansing ritual. I’d come see you, remember what it’s like to feel arousal, and if possible, get off afterwards.” Crowley swallows, takes one of Aziraphale’s hands, the one closer to his pitifully pounding heart. “I’m not proud of it, but not ashamed either. I was always more ashamed of being a demon who couldn’t get it up than wanking to the way you savor a pastry. How’s that for a clean slate, eh, angel?” 

And those bloody blue eyes start glistening, Aziraphale’s face scrunching up in the softest, most pleased and also saddest smile. 

“It’s perfect, darling,” he says, wetly. “Because we, well, we…” Aziraphale tries and stammers and Crowley hates himself for breaking the angel who was brave enough to get them confessing feelings in the first place, then kissing Crowley, and now this. 

“We love each other, don’t we?!” Crowley exclaims, gripping both of Aziraphale’s hands, probably too hard. 

“Yes. Precisely.” Aziraphale nods, smiling. Love wafts off him like opening an oven, Azirpahale’s adoration would’ve clouded Crowley’s glasses right then, if he was still wearing them. 

Crowley laughs. “Then this shouldn’t be so bloody difficult, should it?” 

“We’re probably overthinking it, dear.”

And Crowley feels all at once that Aziraphale gets it. This sucks for both of them. And isn’t that what matters, truly? Crowley’s arms hug around the angel’s middle, pulling him into his chest. Aziraphale rotates, putting his knees up on the couch to face Crowley fully. They settle into a slouching embrace. Aziraphale’s foot runs down the length of Crowley’s shin as he stretches out and _ damn him _. The angel is better at casual temptation than Crowley ever was. Those stockinged toes find Crowley’s boot and glide along the edge of an instep. 

“When did you miracle your shoes off?” Crowley wonders aloud. 

“Only a demon would put his boots on my furniture,” Aziraphale counters, toes kicking at the offending footwear. 

“This sette is older than the building. Can handle some improper treatment.”

Aziraphale scoffs and nips at his neck in rebuke and- fuck- Crowley wants to earn further admonishment now. He nudges the angel’s foot with his own, wriggling until he’s got the point of his boot rucking up Aziraphale’s pant leg. He stops, confused. “Angel don’t tell me,” Crowley looks down, “You’re wearing garters?” 

“Alright, I won’t.” Aziraphale grips Crowley’s tie in his hands. “You’re one to question my stylistic choices, dear.” He twirls the two tasseled ends of the scarf, mocking. “Where does one acquire an accessory like this?” He rolls the fabric between his fingers. “Woven like a scarf, shaped and knotted as a tie, I wouldn’t even know what I was looking at if I saw this in a shop.”

“Second hand, mostly,” Crowley shrugs. His fingers at the angel’s middle stroke and pet waistcoat fabric, wondering at the ease with which such simple gestures are now part of his reality. He smiles. “Craft stalls sometimes. Can’t be shabby chic without the shabby bits, angel.” 

“I see.” Aziraphale swats the tassels at Crowley’s chest, tiny prickling cat-o-nines that tease more than the angel probably realizes, because he amuses himself enough with his silliness to chuckle and redouble his efforts. Finally. This is what Crowley needed. Isn’t attraction some bizarre, utter nonsense? Crowley can’t help but kiss his angel. 

The kiss lasts the better part of 24 hours. 

Crowley takes them on an exploration of the many flat surfaces of the familiar bookshop, christening old comfortable spaces in new, fevered memories. The backroom desk and the shop’s cushioned, window bench serve well beneath both of them as they take turns pinning each other down onto furniture, into alcoves, up against walls and bookshelves. Crowley learns the nuances of Aziraphale’s preferences, the way the angel arches when, in the midst of a more languid kiss, Crowley purses his lips around that plump tongue and sucks hard enough to sting. Aziraphale, in turn, figures out Crowley’s deep appreciation for that full tongue, flat and firm, tasting the skin of his throat, jaw, and behind his ear to his hair. The stairs are a bad fit, with Crowley pressed onto a step and Aziraphale above him, laving up and down his neck. But when they flip over, Aziraphale seated plush and sturdy on the ledge of the second story landing, with Crowley straddling his lap, every rub and lick and bite is _ flawless _ . It’s arousing at first, but Crowley’s past that, as he’s chosen to be. He needs this not for release, or satisfaction, but for Aziraphale, his Aziraphale, his angel, _ his. _Crowley kisses him for hours in order to quell any questions left among the atoms of the universe, most especially in his own mind. 

\------------

Aziraphale insists, and Crowley pretends he has any choice but to allow for, the occasional luxurious, laughing break with wine and tea and a sweet snack which Aziraphale conjures for them both to enjoy. These happen wherever they find themselves, on Aziraphale’s bed once, on the rug in the back room, the kitchen, upstairs beneath the domed skylight, with the sun warming their skin just right for their impromptu picnic. And Aziraphale is blissed out of his mind, so he doesn’t speak much, mostly laughs, or smacks his lips, or hums around a savory, making Crowley squirm, before accepting Crowley upon him once more. Crowley, for his part, just watches, eats, drinks, and reclaims Aziraphale’s mouth as quick as he can each time. If they tease each other, whisper sweet nothings, or say the words they’ve felt for ages, it happens entirely outside the physical plane, their true beings mingling as their bodies make out, snogging like human teenagers. 

When they’re kissing, embraced so close and searching with their hands, minds, and ethereal selves, Aziraphale seems to read Crowley and his intentions more clearly. He understands the hesitance, and matches his beloved’s pace. Aziraphale is eager to undress, to claim, and be possessed, but he’s also incredibly pleased to continue kissing, perhaps forever. Because Crowley is so blessedly happy like this. Crowley’s contentment, his demon’s comfort in his arms, in his mouth, is a restorative to every aching muscle of loneliness in Aziraphale's long years. He feels beyond intoxicated, because mere inebriation is a small corporeal experience. They’re prodding the ether of each other. They feel one another’s wings on the other side, and the love, the love they express here with the pads of their fingers, the tips of their toes, the nuzzles of their temples and noses and cheeks. They’re entirely clothed on the physical plane, besides Crowley’s bare feet and Aziraphale’s stockinged toes, but they’re more than naked on the ethereal. There is too much to express and an infinite amount of time. The bleary edges of one another’s true selves mingle in a drunken dance of each physical, delicate, and searching touch. 

Aziraphale never knew euphoria, never knew divine bliss, never even knew _ Her _, until he fully loved this being She’d created. It’s simultaneously the most blasphemous and worshipful thought he’s ever had. When it occurs to him, he claws his hands hungrily down Crowley’s shoulder blades where his wings would be and his demon arches and gasps and Aziraphale palms both halves of his backside for the first time, squeezes, and kisses ownership into that gasping mouth. 

Somewhere after the fourth picnic break, Aziraphale reasons this has been quite a lovely long bout of foreplay, as they roll from the wall he’d had Crowley pinned against in his upstairs hallway. They stumble into his bedroom and haphazardly onto his bed once again. They’ve been in and out of these sheets in their haze. Crowley has led him on a blur of time and space for what he knows must have been close to a full day since they met in the street beside the Bentley. They’ve changed, as they’ve been doing this. They’ve manifested Efforts, consciously or unconsciously, it doesn’t matter. Aziraphale is aching to use his. Crowley has him pinned this time, pressing him into the mattress, and licking that forked tongue around the lobe of Aziraphale’s ear, just shy of tickling. Aziraphale is trying not to squirm, as it only delights Crowley further. He discovered earlier today that squirming inspires Crowley to continue torturing him. Bless. He’s learned so much today! High time for the next lesson, he decides and wraps his strong thighs around Crowley’s middle, hugging his waist firmly. 

Aziraphale reaches down, without preamble, nothing to slack his courage now, and cups the front of Crowley’s very-not-mannequin-like trousers, 

Crowley grabs his wrist. 

“Not yet,” Crowley snarls. His energy is demonic, forceful, barely restrained. Hot. His energy is so dangerous, Aziraphale almost loses his nerve. Yet, Aziraphale’s erection is threatening to sear through his trousers. Crowley checks himself and his eyes dim their intensity, his brow relaxing. Crowley’s voice attempts to soften, but the gravel still grinds beneath his words. “I’ve spent 6000 years not kissing you, angel.” He leans down with his entire body, pressing close, energy of his soul sparkling with near-aggressive hunger. His lips sneer like the reptile he is and his eyes are serious when he growls, “_ I want to kiss you for 6000 more. _” 

Aziraphale allows himself to be kissed senseless, once again. He settles back, prone for Crowley to ruck and paw, to claw at his clothing, to grind and kiss and growl with nipping teeth and sucking, slurping lips. Being so desired by his lover is better than anything has ever been. Earthly delights, the angel sighs, eyes opening up to the heavens, the ceiling, the shell of Crowley’s ear, the embers and rubies of his hair. Rather than thank Her, or Heaven, or any specific entity, he simply emits gratitude for these blessed earthly delights he’s found in Crowley’s arms. And his demon, the gorgeous thing, breathes out into his skin: 

“You’re welcome.” 

Cocky arse. Aziraphale pulls his hair and tugs Crowley’s chin back and sucks another bruise above his collarbone. Aziraphale begins, after a time, to give as good as he’s getting. When Crowley’s intensity ebbs, the angel rushes in to refill the tank. He breaks their mouths apart, turns Crowley onto his side, and kisses down his throat to the topmost button of his waistcoat. He toys with it, tongue and teeth playing with the little disk, making Crowley squirm and buck beside him. Aziraphale tries to respool the thread of their conversation. 

“Kissing.” He releases the button to say. “Yes. This has been a revelation. But to the exclusion of other activities?” Aziraphale’s fingers twitch where they are resting upon Crowley’s waistband. Crowley’s hands tremble down to meet them, clasping their hands together and releasing. 

\--------------

“Course not. Just.” Crowley breathes, terribly afraid of mucking this up at the finish line. “I want to savor.” He swallows. “Getting repetitive, aren’t I?” He’s not embarrassed by what he wants. He won’t be embarrassed. Not now. Not with Aziraphale’s erection grinding into his hip, thigh, anywhere it can, for the last few hours. 

“Perhaps a change of scenery?” Aziraphale offers. “I did so want to be curled up in that enormous bed of yours.” 

“Suppose my plants may need me,” Crowley rolls his eyes, teasing with a genuine smile. He circles a claw on Aziraphale’s wrist, tracing little constellations. His other hand performs the necessary snap. 

“Oh!” Aziraphale exclaims. His arms reach out, hands curling in the sheets. “How are your bedclothes so cold to the touch?” 

“They’re silk, for a start,” Crowley teases, fanning his own fingers in the luxury. “But perhaps it’s because a pair of supernatural entities haven’t been screwing around on them all day?” 

Aziraphale kicks at him and Crowley dodges, laughing. They spread themselves out, wings corporating, feathers draping the entire expanse of the bed, and almost making it feel small. Crowley nuzzles his head playfully between Aziraphale’s coverts and primaries, popping his face out between them to look up at Aziraphale. The angel takes advantage by bending his wing to drag Crowley close, wrapping him in plumage and the scent of sunlight. The angel was right, a change of scenery makes it all feel new again, especially because there is less to worry about knocking over or damaging here. Crowley can get particularly acrobatic, perhaps crawl them up to the ceiling? They’re rolling around and kissing their hearts out again, mostly lavishing one another’s wings in attention. Crowley feels safer, stronger, here in his own bed, unraveling his angel. His wings are just a start. Crowley begins releasing as much of his incorporeal energy as he can without discorporating this body, truly sprawling out to fill his enormous bedroom, really get comfortable. 

Aziraphale’s breath becomes hitched and panting, his wings flutter and clench. Oh. Some of Crowley must be washing over him. Through him. Crowley watches, tamps down on the release of himself. Aziraphale’s face winds up, his lips open and mouth lapping at the air. 

“Angel?” Crowley’s rather concerned, until… 

“Don’t stop!” Aziraphale tugs Crowley’s tie hard enough to choke if Crowley needed air. 

Fuck.

Crowley lets it all out, as much of himself as he can while keeping this body’s eyes staring at Aziraphale’s spasmic thrusts, his body’s arc off the bed, his wings beating and curling.

And then Aziraphale’s glow hits him, shines through him, ricochets down his vertebrae, explodes in his groin.

Meanwhile, in the atrium, ferns that thought it would take the two supernatural beings another several weeks, months, or years to get it together are exchanging whatever plants use for currency amongst themselves and congratulating those who bet closest to the mark. In the garage, the Bentley lowers her windows, puffs out a cloud of exhaust from her tailpipe like the exhale of a satisfying cigarette, and positively preens. 

The sheets don’t feel cool beneath Crowley’s skin any longer. And his palms stick to them when he tries to reach for Aziraphale. He can’t see his angel through the glow and the feathers, but he knows Aziraphale is right around here, surely.

“Crowley?” 

“Hmm?”

“There you are,” Aziraphale shifts, somewhere, here or there, and Crowley can see his face, all bubbly and flushed. The angel smiles and Crowley thinks he’s going to cry and this time he won’t care if Aziraphale or God Herself sees him at it. 

“Dearest? Are you all right?” 

Crowley chuckles and tugs at his soaked trousers, wondering how many times he ejaculated. And if he can go again. “This,” he draws the angel’s attention to the growing stain, “S’meant to be embarrassing.” 

“Are you embarrassed?” Aziraphale props his head in one hand, the other idly fluffing through the downy feathers of Crowley’s wingpit. 

“Ngk.” Crowley can’t let the angel know it tickles, so he wills his wings not to twitch. “I mean. Not embarrassed at all. If you can believe?” 

Aziraphale smiles, true love incarnate. “I can. Shameless demon.” 

“Well, I can’t,” Crowley feels like he could take a bath in holy water without trading bodies. He’s never known invincibility before this moment. “S’Never been this easy, angel.” 

“Mmm. Imagine if I remove my bow tie next time?” Aziraphale kisses him primly, and Crowley almost miracles the bugger naked right then in retribution. Aziraphale leans back, looking a little drunk. “Might I tell you how I feel?” 

“‘Course.” Crowley nods. 

“It's never been like that for me, either. Obviously, no human could ever, eh, without," he tugs his bow tie, looks away, flushes, and regains himself. "I am delighted, Crowley. Pleased we could feel so good. So fast. Together. And that we have so much else we can do, my dearest, to feel as good again.” His fingers dig into the joint of Crowley’s wing to pull him closer. “We're intoxicating.”

“Guess we are that.”

Five more nights and six more days they spend in bed, luxuriating in one another’s energies, in their feelings, their love. And orgasms inumerable. They don’t eat or drink except to be sated on each other. It’s been six nights and seven days since Azriaphale sent his first email, and on that seventh day, they rise and find some snacks together, some champagne to celebrate, and begin to plan the rest of their lives. 

\--------------------------------------

Aziraphale never tires of sending Crowley emails. From the study of their home in the South Downs, while Crowley is in the greenhouse just outside: 

> Crowley darling, 
> 
> Would you pick us some tomatoes on your way in? I saw they were ripened from the window. I’d like to try my hand at a savory French tomato tart. Much appreciation. 
> 
> Love you, 
> 
> Your Aziraphale. 

When Crowley is riding in the Bentley along some particularly treacherous cliffside roads after he dropped Aziraphale at a small antique store in a borough whose name he didn’t bother to recall. 

> Dearest Crowley, 
> 
> I’ve squatted at what this town considers a bookshop for too long, I fear. I simply can’t abide another cup of what they’re calling a latte. But I must acquire this first edition Pratchett. I know how you loved his stories.
> 
> Head back without me, darling. I may be home late. 
> 
> Love you,
> 
> Aziraphale. 

Once or twice, Crowley has attempted to confront him about this. 

“Angel, we’ve _ got _to teach you about texting. You could even send me pictures of things you want that way.” 

“And get one of those dreadful mobile phones?” Aziraphale’s face screws up in disgust. He gives Crowley’s mobile a side-eye. “That’s a lot of excess and unnecessary tech, Crowely, when really sending an email works just as well.”

It will be another twelve years before Aziraphale gets a mobile, and then he manages to find a Blackberry of all things and miracles it into working as he desires. Crowley hates that they can’t enjoy holographic messages, AR, and VR together on their phones. But at least he gets two dimensional photos and videos from the farmer’s markets now with cute emoticons. So, that’s something. 

~~~The End~~~

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[podfic] Aziraphale's Emails](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24478675) by [ExMarks](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ExMarks/pseuds/ExMarks)


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